IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


L! 


1.25 


^   Ilia 

2.0 


1.4 


6" 


1.8 


1.6 


V] 


VI 


7 


>^ 


"^ 


Photographic 

Sdences 

Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  SVREET 

WEBSTER, NY.  MS80 

(716)  873-4503 


CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHIVI/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographicaily  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


□    Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 

□    Covers  damaged/ 
Couverture  endommagie 

□   Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  pellicul6e 


D 


Cover  title  missing/ 

Le  titre  de  couverture  manque 


n   Coloured  maps/ 
Cartes  giograpiiiques  en  couleur 

□    Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blMO  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

□    Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 


n 


n 


D 


Bound  with  other  material/ 
Relit  avec  d'autres  documents 

Tiaht  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

Ld  reliure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intArieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajouttes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte, 
mais,  lorsque  cela  Atait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  AtA  filmtes. 

Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  supplAmentaires: 


L'Institut  a  microf  ilm6  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  iui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  d6tails 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-Atre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  pouvent  modifier 
une  image  r«produite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  methods  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqute  ci-dessous. 


r~n   Coloured  pages/ 


Pages  tie  couleur 

Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagtes 

Pages  restored  and/oi 

Pages  restaurtes  et/ou  peilicultes 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxei 
Pages  dtcoiortes,  tacheties  ou  piqutes 


I — I   Pages  damaged/ 

I — I   Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 

I — I    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 


□Pages  detached/ 
Pages  d6tach6es 

rr~y'showthrough/ 
Lkj   Transparence 

I      I    Quality  of  print  varies/ 


D 


Quality  intgaie  de  I'impression 

includes  supplementary  material/ 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplimentaire 

Only  edition  available/ 
Seule  Mition  disponible 


Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totalement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata.  une  pelure. 
etc..  ont  6t^  film6es  A  nouveau  de  fagon  A 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  filmA  au  taux  de  reduction  indiqu*  ci-dessous. 


10X 


14X 


18X 


22X 

"7 


26X 


30X 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  rep'oduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

Morisset  Library 
University  of  Ottawa 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grfice  k  la 
g6n6roslt6  de: 

Bibliothdque  Morisset 
University  d'Ottawa 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  6x6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet6  de  l'exemplaire  filmd,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
begiiining  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, 0/  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrrtad  impression. 


Les  exempiaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprim^e  sont  film6s  en  commerpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comports  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exempiaires 
originaux  sont  filmds  en  commenpant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ♦-  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  ^jnd  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbols  — ►  signifie  "A  SUIVRE  ",  le 
symbols  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
filmis  6  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  6  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauci.e  6  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nicessair^.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthoue. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

BROWNING'S  VERSE-FORM: 

ITS   ORGANIC  CHARACTER 


(/ 


BY 


ARTHUR   BEATTY,   A.   B. 


SIBMITTED  IN  PARTIAL  FULFILMENT  OF  THE   REQUIREMENTS   FOR  THE 
DEGREE  OF  DOCTOR  OF  PHILOSOPHY. 


IN  THE 


FACULTY  OF  PHILOS  1PHY.  COLUMBIA  UNIVERSITY 


NEW    YORK 
1897 


A 


i  ^^ 


\\ 


CONTENTS. 


Page. 
Preface j^ 

Chapter  I  —  Introduction 7 

Chapter  II  — The  Verse-Forms gg 

Chapter  III  — The  Strophe-Forms 33 

Chapter  IV  —  The  Blank  Verse 57 


PREFACE. 


In  this  Essay  only  one  aspect  of  Browning's  art  has  been 
considered  Any  systematic  attempt  to  study  his  method 
of  construction  has  not  been  attempted,  c's  lying  beyond  its 
limited  scope  But,  as  the  imagination  and  harmony  of 
poetry  are  never  separable  except  by  analysis,  some  con- 
sideration has  been  given  to  the  structure,  in  order  to  ap- 
preci:\<^^e  the  organic  nature  of  the  verse.  The  harmony, 
the  verse,  of  his  jioetry  has  been  considered  in  its  organic 
nature  — as  the  embodiment  of  the  creations  of  his  imagin- 
ation, the  forms  of  his  "thoughts  on  life".  "We  have  not 
cared  to  ask  whether  these  "  thoughts  "  are  "  poetical  '  or 
not,  believing  that  such  matters  can  never  be  settled  by 
any  a  priori  theory  of  the  beautiful.  We  have  undertaken 
the  humbler  task  of  attempting  to  attain  to  the  poet's 
standpoint,  and  then  to  enquire  whether  he  has  embodied 
his  views  of  life  in  forms  which  are  their  organic,  and, 
therefore,  artistic  and  beautiful  expression. 

The  books  to  which  I  am  indebted  are  indicated  in  the 
foot-notes.  But  I  owe  a  special  debt  to  the  works  of  my 
teachers  ;  to  Prof.  W.  J.  Alexander's  Introduvtion  to  Brown- 
ing, to  Prof.  Hiram  Corson's  Introduction  to  Browning,  and 
more  directly  to  Prof.  Thos.  R.  Price's  Construction  and 
Tijpes  of  Shaksperes  Verse,  the  sympathetic  literary  in- 
sight and  beautifully  accurate  method  of  which  I  have 
taken  as  a  model. 

..  ,      .  A.  B. 

Columbia  University, 

Neio  York,  February,  1897. 


Why  take  the  artistic  way  to  prove  so  much  ? 
Because,  it  is  the  glory  and  good  of  Art, 
That  Art  remains  the  one  way  possible 

Of  speaking  truth Art  may  tell  a  truth 

Obliquely,  do  the  thing  shall  breed  the  thought. 
Nor  wrong  the  thought,  missing  the  mediate  word. 
So  may  you  paint  your  picture,  twice  show  truth, 
Beyond  mere  imagery  on  the  wall, — 
So,  note  by  note,  bring  music  from  your  mind, 
Deeper  than  ever  e'en  Beethoven  dived, — 
So  write  a  book  shall  mean  beyond  the  facta, 
SuflBce  the  eye  and  save  the  soul  beside. 

The  liing  and  the  Book,  Bk.  XII. 


INTHODUCTION. 


CHAPTER  I. 


INTRODUCTION. 

In  the  lines  which  stand  at  the  beginning  of  the  essay, 
Browning  has  explicitly  stated  the  motives  which  have 
governed  him  in  the  writing  of  his  great  poem,  Tlie  Ring 
and  the  Book,  and,  by  a  natural  inference,  in  the  whole  of 
his  long  life-work.  His  conception  of  the  end  of  art  is  the 
"speaking  of  truth; "  but  always  in  the  way  which  is  de- 
termined for  art  by  the  very  nature  of  art  itself.  This  ex- 
alted view  of  art  at  once  lifts  it  far  above  the  sjjhere  of 
dilettante  trilling,  and  places  it  on  a  level  with  all  that  has 
an  intimate  connection  with  life,  with  religion,  philosophy 
and  science,  by  bringing  into  inseparable  connection  art 
and  the  foundation  of  all  of  life.-  truth.  It  is  the  same 
view  as  that  which  has  been  expressed  by  Matthew  Arnold 
from  his  narrower  point  of  view,  that  "poetry  is  at  bottom 
a  criticism  of  life;  that  the  greatness  of  a  poet  lies  in  his 
powerful  and  beautiful  application  of  ideas  to  life,— to  the 
question:  How  to  live. "'  Or  rather  as  the  P'rench  critic, 
M.  Brunetith-e,  expresses  it,  "it  seems  that  literature  in 
the  future  ought  to  be  not  only  an  imitation  or  translation 
of  life,  but  rather  a  Jortii  of  activitij. "  - 

A  view  of  literature,  such  as  this,  insists,  as  does  Brown- 
ing in  all  his  work,  on  the  intimate  connection  between 
literature  and  life;  and,  like  M.  Brunetiere,  he  holds  that 
the  life  of  literature  is  doomed  when  any  divorce  is  made 
between  it  and  the  whole  of  life  from  which  it  draws  its 
sustenance.  On  this  aspect  of  Browning  it  is  unnecessary 
to  insist,  in  view  of  the  numerous  "interpretations,"  phil- 
osophical and  religious,  which   we  have  with  us  in  such 

•  Preface  to  his  I'liims  of  WurUnu-orih. 

'  Ferdinand  Hrunetiere,  youviUts  Questiu)is  de  Vritujiie,  '■S.ijmbolist'-.f  tt  Decuilcnti." 


8 


nB»»WNIN0'8    VER8K-PORM:    ITS    OROANIC    CHARACTER. 


numbers.     The  only   danger  is  that  the  synthesis  of  the 
poet  may  be  entirely  ignored    in  the  industrious  inquiries 
into  his  doctrines  as  a  philosopher  and  theologian;  and  Mr. 
Edmund  Oosse  spoke  n  neoded  word  when  he  recently  said: 
"  I  am  bound  to  tell  you  that  I   saw  a  different  Browning 
from  the  hero  of  all  the  handbooks  and    '  gospels'  which 
are  now   in   vogue.      People  are  beginning   to  treat  this 
vehement  and  honest  port  as  if  he  were  a  sort  of  Marcus 
Aurelius  and  John  the  Baptist  rolled  into  one.     I  have  just 
seen  a  book  in  which  it  is  proposed  that  Browing  should 
supersede  the  Bible,  in  which  it  is  asserted  that  a  set  of 
his  volumes  will  teach  religion  better  than  all  the  theologies 
of   the  world.     Well,  I  did    not  know  that  holy  monster. 
Perhaps  I  was  not  good  enough  to  know  him.     But  what  I 
saw  was  an  unostentatious,  keen,  active  man  of  the  world, 
one  who  never  failed  to  give  good,  practical  advice  in  mat- 
ters of  business   and  conduct,  one  who  loved  his  friends, 
but  certainly  haled  his   enemies;   a  man  who  loved  to  dis- 
cuss people  and   affairs,  and  a  bit  of  a  gossip,  a  bit  of  a 
partisan,  too,  and  not  without  his  humorous  prejudices.  He 
was   simple   to   a  high   degree,   simple  in  his  scrupulous 
dress,  his  loud,  happy  voice,  his  insatiable  curiosity."  The 
highest  tribute  one  can  pay  to  these  words  is  that  we  can 
imagine   them   applying  to  Shakespeare    "m  habit  as  he 
lived,"  to  whom  Browning  has  so  many  similarities,  in  the 
whole  and  steady  vision  of   life   which   is   revealed  in  his 
"volumes  light.  '      The  testimony  of  the  intimate  friend  is 
confirmed  by  the  study  of  the  ])oet's  work,  which  shows  us 
"  a  m&u  of   the  world,"  in   the  noblest  sense.     To  him  life 
was  a  whole;  and  he  consistently  refused  to  surrender  any 
part  of  it  in  order  to  develop   what  some   might  call  a 
higher  and  more  essential  part.    Ihis  uncomprising  love  of 
fact  is  characteristic  only  of  the  greatest  men;   and  even 
Shakespeare  did  not  go  through  the  world  with  keener  and 
more  enquiring  eyes  than  Browning.  "  He  must  have  a  vision 
of  all  the  facts, "  in  the  words  of  Hamilton  W.  Mabie, "  and 


INTRODUCTION. 


9 


giving  each  its  weigiit  and  place,  he  must  mako  his  peace 
with  them,  or  else  chaos  and  death  are  the  only  certainties.  " 
The  "certainties  "  of  life  were  the  object  of  his  unceasing 
search,  and  his  work  is  but  the  record  of  a  life  spent  in 
earnest  "  watch  o'er  man's  mortality.  " 

The  fame  of  Browning  has  never  suffered,  nor  is  it  likely 
to  suffer,  because  he  has  failed  to  have  something  to  say. 
He  has  always  been  credited  with  having  a  message,  what- 
ever have  been  the  doubts  as  to  what  tlie  message  is.     It  is 
rather  on  the  other  side  of  the  poet's  work  that  he  has  been 
attaclrou  from  the  beginning  of  his  career.     It  has  always 
been  acknowledged    that   he   fulfils  one  side  of  the  poet's 
vocation,  by  "speaking  truth";  but  is   has   been   as  stren- 
uously maintained   that  he   has   failed   to  give   his  truths 
concrete,    that  is,    artistic,  rorm.     In   short,  he  has   been 
charged  with  a  lack  of  "the  sense  of  form";  and  it  is  with 
this  charge  of  "lawlessness"  that  lie  goes  on  to  deal  in  the 
lines  which  we  have  chosen  as  the  text  of  this  essay.     The 
theme  of  Art  is  declared  to  be  truth;  but  the  other  side  of 
the  matter  is  not  neglected.     Truth,   he  says,    can  be  told 
"in  Art's  way"  only  by  giving  it  a  concrete /orm  —  by  suf- 
ficing the  eye,    for  only  thus  can  truth  be  told  with  power 
to  "save  the  soul."     By  this  Browning  means  that  poetry 
does  not  present  the  truth  directly,    ;is  abstract   theorems 
or  propositions,  but  indirectly,   or  "oMlquely,"   as  individ- 
ualized  and  particularized   in    concrete,    sensuous    forms. 
Thus  the  true  poet,  to  tell  the  truth    "in  Art's  way,"  must 
not  only  be  endowed  with   the   power  of  seeing  the  tryth. 
He  must  also  see  beauty,  as  necessarily  connected  with  the 
truth ;  and  he  must  satisfy  our  whole  nature  by  showing 
-us  the  truth  and  the  beauty  not  separately,    but   as    fused 
together  into  one  organic,  concrete  whole.     Thus  the  uni- 
versality and  abstraction  of  thought  is  presented  in  the  liv- 
ing,   sensuous   forms  of  Art.     The  antithesis  between  the 
universal  and  particular   is    resolved  by  representing  the 

I  Essays  in  Lilerari/  JiifrrpriKitimi,  p.  114. 


10 


BROWNING  B    VER8S-F0KM :    IT8    OKQANIC    CHARACTER. 


universal  through  the  particular,  by  giving  a  concrete,  liv- 
ing embodiment  to  a  universal  truth.'  In  Browning's  own 
words,  Art  is  the  "mediate  word"  of  the  truth;  the  form  by 
which  the  truth  reaches  us,  and  through  which  the  poet 
speaks  to  the  universal  in  us  —  speaks  to  us  not  as  "men," 
that  is,  to  us  as  individuals,  but  to  us  as  "mankind." 
"Song's  the  poet's  art,"  and  he  must  refrain  from  speak- 
ing "naked  thoughts; "  but  he  must  drape  his  thoughts  "in 
sights  and  sounds."  He  must  "make  thhtf/.s,"  instead  of 
"writhuj  t/ioi((jlitit  ab  nt  t/iem" ;  else  he  foregoes  his  divine 
mission  "to  bury  us  with  glory,  pouring  heaven  into  this 
shut  house  of  life. "  -  Art  repeats  the  miracle  of  the  incarna- 
tion. Browning  would  say;  —  before  the  Word  dwelt  among 
men  and  manifested  to  them  his  glory,  full  of  grace  and 
truth,  he  Oeraiw  jlesh. 

We  thus  see  that  Browning  recognizes,  in  theory  at  least, 
the  importance  of  form  in  the  domain  of  art;  as  we  have 
seen,  he  regards  it  as  the  essential  thing,  without  which 
poetry  cannot  be.  It  will  be  found  that  there  is  no  contra- 
diction between  the  critic  and  the  poet,  when  both  are 
studied  from  the  correct  point  of  view.  And,  in  the  first 
place,  it  is  necessary  to  understand  that,  while  Browning 
fully  recognizes  the  great  importance  of  form,  he  in  no 
wise  regards  it  as  an  end  in  itself;  but  always  as  oryavic  to 
the  thought  and  emotion  of  the  poem.  His  life  and  work 
were  never  at  odds;  and  as  he  looked  upon  life  as  a  whole, 
and  not  to  be  broken  into  parts,  so  he  views  art  as  an  organ- 
ism in  which  form  and  content  are  not  brought  together  in 
any  accidental  or  arbitrary  way,  but  are  inseparable  save 
in  abstraction.  In  his  creed  of  art,  smoothness  of  verse, 
polished  academic  diction,  or  the  dogma  of  any  cult  which 
would  separate  art  from  life,  or  form  from  content,  can 
have  no  place  whatever.  With  Browning,  the  form  is 
regarded  as  the  embodiment  of  the  content.     No  poet  has 

'  HeKL'l,  Aeslhetik  (Inlroiluction,  Bo$anquet's  Tranalalion.) 
*  "Tranncenihntalism." 


INTRODUCTION. 


11 


had  a  clearer  conception  of  the  organic  nature  of  literature 
and  of  poetry.     It  would  be  idolatry  to  say  that  this  ideal 
is  unerringly  and  unfailingly  fulfilled;  but  considering  the 
vastness  of  his  outlook,  the  great  range  of  his  themes,  and 
the  great  volume  of  his  work,  we  have  had  few  poets  who 
have  so   completely  succeeded  in    clothing  their  thoughts 
and  emotions  in  forms  which  so  completely  answer  to  th*- 
animating  life  principle  within.    As  he  has  said  of  Shelley, 
"  his  works  show  the  whole  ])oet's  function  of  beholding 
with  an  understanding  keenness  the  universe,  nature  'ind 
man,  in  their  actual  state  of  perfection  in  imperfectioi  ;   and 
at  the  same  time  the  power  of  delivering  his  attained  results 
in  an  embodiment  of  verse  more  closely  answering  to,  and 
indicative  of,  the  process  of  the  informing  spirit  — with  a 
diction  more  adequate  to  the  task  in  its  natural  and  acquired 
richness,  its  material  colour,  and  spiritual  transparency,— 
than  can  be  attributed  to  any  other  writer  whose  record  is 
among  us."  '     Shelley  i.s  ranked  high  by  drowning  because 
his  poetry  is  "a  sublime  fragmentary  essay  towards  a  pre- 
sentment of  the  correspondency  of  the  universe  to  deity,  of 
the  natural  to  the  spiritual,  and  of  the  actual  to  the  ideal;"  ' 
and  at  the  same  time  possesses  an  embodiment   which  is 
expressive  of  the  processes  of  the  informing  spi-it. 

This  is  the  way  by  which  we  must  apjjroach  the  work  of 
Browning,  if  we  are  to  appreciate  the  artistic  powers 
which  are  brought  by  the  poet  to  the  utterance  of  his 
thoughts  on  man,  on  nature,  and  on  human  life.  The 
form— the  verse,  language,  and  all  the  elements  which 
enter  into  exjjression  in  the  broadest  sense  -  must  never 
be  looked  at  as  something  which  can  be  analyzed,  or  be 
Judged  as  either  good  or  bad.  apart  from  the  substance. 
These  two  are  elements  in  one  organic  whole,  co-operating 
to  give  the  poefs  interpretation  of  life;  and  where  they 
canjje  separated  without  any  mutual  hurt  they  have  never 

'  Browning,     Extai/  on  Nlwlley  . 


12 


imoWNINO  8    VKK8E-K0RM:     ITS    ORCJANIC    CHARACTER. 


beon  fu.-MJti  into  artistic  unity.  In  a  true  poem,  the  mes- 
sage can  never  be  evaluated  apart  from  the  form  which 
embodies  it,  nor  can  tlie  form  be  judged  as  beautiful  or 
ugly  ajjarl  from  tiio  message  of  the  poem.  This  is  true 
of  all  jjoetry  of  the  iiighest  order;  and  there  is  no  body  of 
poetry  to  which  ii  more  closely  a])plies  than  to  Brewing's 
work.  The  artistic  quality  of  the  form,  or  the  beauty  of 
the  art-product  can  be  judged  only  wiien  the  thought  is 
synipathftically  und(M-stood;  otherwise,  the  characteristic 
and  organic  beauty  of  the  poem  will  be  unperceived. 

Poetry  is  the  most  int<?llectual  of  the  arts,  being  re- 
alizt'd  les.s  in  external  sensuous  forms,  and  more  in  the  inner 
world  of  the  feelings  and  ideas.  In  poetry,  as  compared 
with  su<'ii  i'.n  art  as  painting,  the  sensuous  appeals  to  us 
mucli  Us.-,  direclly,  and  wi>  aie  thrown  back'  more  to  the 
world  of  inner  liiought.  .)ohn  La  Fr.rgc  has  well  stated 
the  iai[)iession  made  l)y  painting.  "Who  shall  fathom  the 
impressions  made  by  art?— impressions  which  become  con- 
fused, when  one  tries  to  declare  them  and  describe  them; 
strong  and  clear  if  we  feel  them  again,  even  by  the  recall 
of  memory;  so  that  wo  realize  how  much  of  our.selves  con- 
stituted the  feelings  which  se(>med  to  come  out  of  the  things 
that  struck  us.  In  our  art  these  impressions  are  tang- 
ible, if  I  may  say  so.  We  enjoy  what  we  think  is  the  re- 
presentation of  the  certain  things,  at  tlie  same  time  that 
some  sense  of  what  they  mean  for  our  mind  affects  and 
moves  us.  These  figures,  these  objects,  which  seem  to  be 
the  thing  itself  to  a  certain  ])art  of  our  intelligence,  make 
a  sort  of  bridge  over  which  we  pass  to  reach  that  myster- 
ious impression  which  is  represented  by  form  as  a  sort  of 
hieroglyph;  a  speaking,  living  hieroglyph,  not  such  a  one 
as  is  re])laced  by  a  few  characters  of  writing.  .  .  An  art 
more  complicated  certainly  than  literature,  but  infinitely 
more  expressive,  since,  independently  of  the  idea,  its  sign, 
its  living  hieroglyph,  fills  the  soul  of  the  painter  with  the 
splendour  that  things  give;    their   beauty,  their  contrast, 


INTRODUCTION. 


13 


their  harmony,    their  colours.— all   the  undivided  order  of 
the  external  universe."' 

Since  the  signs  of  poetry  are,  to  a  large  degree,  conven- 
tional, and  appeal  to  our  aesthetic  sense  only  to  a  slight 
degree  directly  through  presentation,  but  mainly  indirectly, 
through  representation,  we  are  forced  to  realize  the  situa- 
tion in  a  poem  by  our  imagination.  The  scene  is  only  hinted 
at  in  the  signs  of  poetry,  and  these  signs  can,  in  them- 
selves and  apart  from  association  of  idea,  only  to  a  slight 
degree  "fill  our  soul  with  the  splendour  that  thivgH  give." 
Thus,  in  poetry  wo  are  more  and  more  forced  to  make  certain 
whether  wo  apprehend  the  truth  of  a  poem,  before  we  can 
say  whether  we  see  its  characteristic  beauty.  Unless  we 
are  capable  of  responding  to  the  truth  of  a  poem,  we 
can  never  respond  to  the  beauty  of  the  form  in  which  the 
truth  is  organically  embodied.  And  on  the  other  hand,  as 
we  understand,  in  the  true  sense,  the  meaning  of  a  true 
poom,  our  feeling  for  its  beauty  grows  accordingly.  There 
can  be  no  divorce  between  the  intellect  and  the  feelings  in 
poetry;  but  they  must  "rise  or  sink  together,  dwarfed  or 
godlike,  bond  or  free."  Smoothness  or  ruggedness  in 
verso  can,  in  them.solves,  have  no  aesthetic  significance, 
apart  from  the  thought,  feeling  or  action  of  the  poem.  It 
is  the  peculiar  glory  of  the  highest  poetry  that  there  is  no 
separation  between  the  idea  and  its  sign;  that  it  summons 
1  nto  activity  all  our  powers  in  order  to  realize  it  as  an  or- 
ganic whole;  and  it  is  only  as  wo  do  respond  with  our 
whole  nature  that  we  read  the  message  which  the 
highest  poetry  alone  can  give  us. ' 

Thus,  seeing  the  characteristic  beauty  of  an  organic  whole 
implies  seeing  as  one   the  form  and  the  content,  not  as  in- 
dependent parts,  but   in  relation  to  each  other,  and  as  in- 
separable parts  which  cooperate  to  the  making  of  one  har^ 
m  onious  whole.     Thus,  too,  every  poet  will  have  a  peculiar 

'  Connkleralions  on  I'ainliii;/,  pj).  U7-11,H. 

»  Compare  Barrett  Wendell,  EnijHsh  ('oinimtition,  p,  "if*,  ff. 


14 


BROWNING  8    VEESE-FORM:    ITS   ORQANIC   CHARACTER. 


form  organic  to  his  every  poem;  and,  moreover,  the  entire 
body  of  his  work  will  bear  the  marks  of  his  peculiar  bur- 
den. This  is  true  of  Browning;  and  as  he  has  gone  far  out 
of  the  beaten  paths  of  conventional  poetry,  the  forms  which 
were  necessary  to  embody  the  results  of  his  wide  study  of 
life  have  been  equally  unconventional.  His  thought  has 
been  so  novel,  and  the  wide  range  of  his  intellect  has  made 
such  demands  on  the  understanding  of  his  readers,  that 
the  vast  majority  has  been  unable  to  pass  from  the  articu- 
lating thought  to  the  subtler  art  which  is  at  the  basis. 

Browning  first  attracted  attention  as  a  sturdy  thinker 
and  reasoner  in  verse;  and  so  the  first  criticism  brought 
against  him  was,  in  general,  that  of  "obscurity."  The 
critics  had  not  as  yet  penetrated  the  thought  to  the  form 
beneath.  But,  in  time,  the  thought  of  his  poetry  became 
a  part  of  the  common  stock-in-trade  of  the  times;  and  it 
was  in  consequence  found  comparatively  lucid  and  simple. 
Attention  was  then  turned  to  the  form  of  his  poetry,  and 
the  usual  criticism  of  it  now  is  that  it  betrays  a  great  lack 
of  "  artistic  sense.  '  Though  these  two  charges  against 
the  poet  have  never  been  entirely  separated,  yet  the  em- 
phasis placed  upon  each  in  turn  marks  two  important  stages 
in  the  evolution  of  Browning  criticism.  In  this  Browning 
is  not  at  all  unique,  but  has  shared  the  fate  of  all  poets 
who  have  strayed  from  the  paddock  of  convention.  It 
has  been  the  fate  of  all  original  poets  to  be  judged,  or 
rather  misjudged,  by  rules  and  standards  of  criticism  which 
their  poetry  has  rendered  entirely  obsolete;  and  when  we 
meet  with  such  an  one,  it  will  be  well  for  us  to  reconsider 
the  grounds  on  which  we  found  our  judgments  of  poetry 
and  artistic  beauty.  The  history  of  English  poetry  has 
shown  that  we  must  be  ever  on  the  watch  for  new  types  of 
literature,  and  that  we  must  beware  of  condemning  works 
as  shapeless  and  chaotic,  in  which  a  later  time,  with  a 
wider  and  more  sympathetic  view,  may  see  everywhere 
"  proofs  of  design  and  self-supporting  arrangement  where 


,-p' 


INTRODUCTION. 


15 


our  careless  eye  had  seen  nothing  but  accident.  "  Shake- 
speare, tried  by  the  standards  of  the  "  classical "  criticism, 
was  nothing  more  than  a  "drunken  savage;"  and  Milton 
was  condemned  by  Dr.  Johnson  for  "  grossly  violating  the 
laws  of  metre"  in  the  very  verses  which  we  now  consider 
to  mark  the  supreme  excellence  of  blank  verse.  A  due 
consideration  of  the  man's  work  as  a  whole  would  have 
made  these  false  criticisms  impossible;  and,  in  the  same 
way,  Browning's  alleged  "obscurity"  and  "neglect  of 
form  "  may  be  dispelled  by  an  attempt  to  attain  to  the  point 
of  view  from  which  he  surveys  the  universe,  nature  and 
man. 

I'he  aim  of  Browning  as  a  poet  is  summed  up  in  a  preg- 
nant sentence  in  the  preface   to  Sordello:  "  My  stress  lay  on 
the  incidents  in  the  development  of  a  soul:  little  else  is  worth 
study.  '     This  shows  the  interest  he  had  in  the  phenomena 
of  the  mind;  but  it  also  shows  his  equally  strong  feeling 
for  fact  — for  the  common  facts  in  the  life  of  his  fellpw- 
men.     Thus,  while   he   studies   the  soul  as  the  one   thing 
worthy  of   his    attention,  his  realistic    turn    of   mind  pre- 
vents him  from  taking  an  exclusive  interest  in  the  work- 
ings of  his  own  soul,  as  the  sum  and  substance  of  the  whole 
universe.     He  studies  the  souls  of  men  as  they  are  revealed 
by  the   incidents  in  their  development.     But  he   has  not  a 
merely  spectacular  interest,  on  the  other  hand,  in  these  in- 
cidents.    They  are  interesting  to  him  only  as  they  reveal 
the  individual  soul  at  some  particular  stage  of  its  develop- 
ment.    The  incidents  with  which  he  deals  are  interesting 
only  because  they  reveal  the  one  thing  of  supreme  worth 
to  him  —  the  human  soul,  tending  "  on  its  lone  way  "  to  God, 
however  thwarted  and  bound  by  its  "baffling  and  pervert- 
ing carnal  mesh.  '     Each  soul  is  a  microcosm,  and  contains 
within  itself   the   essential  elements  of  the  Universe.     It 
carries  its  life  within;  and  if  the  potentialities  of  that  soul 
are    realized,   it    reaches    its    perfection   and   its    heaven. 
"  Truth  is  within  ourselves,"  says  Paracelsus;  and  so  is  all 


1 


16 


BROWNINO  S    VERSE-FORM:    ITS    OROANIC    CHARACTER. 


which  is  really  ours.  Knowledge,  truth,  perfection,  or 
anything  we  may  set  up  as  an  end  to  be  attained  must  be 
made  vital  and  personal  if  they  are  to  be  possessed  by  the 
soul.  None  of  these  things  are  to  be  attained  by  a  con- 
quest from  without,  but  by  growth  and  development  from 
within.  And  the  end  of  perfection  is  placed  by  Browning 
far  beyond  the  possibility  of  attainment  in  this  present  life. 
"  Life  is  probation  and  the  earth  no  goal,  but  starting-point 
of  man,"  says  the  aged  Pope;  and  yet  the  identity  of  the 
soul's  life  in  every  state  remains,  and  this  life  is  an  integral 
part  of  the  self -development  which  is  to  be  perfected  in 
another  and  freer  sphere.  The  soul  is  infinite;  but,  fixed 
"mid  this  dance  of  plastic  circumstance,  this  Present,"  it 
must  "  tit  to  the  finite  its  infinity. "  Amid  the  helps  and 
hindrances  of  the  earth-life, 

"  I  say  that  man  was  made  to  grow,  not  stop: 
That  help  he  needed  ont'e,  and  needs  no  more. 
Having  <,'ro\vn  up  but  an  inch  by,  is  withdrawn: 
For  he  hath  new  needs,  and  new  helps  to  these  "; 

and  thus  he  must  go  on  until  at  last  he  reaches 
"the  ultimate  angels'  law. 
Indulging  every  instinct  of  the  soul 
There  where  law,  life,  joy,  impulse  are  one  thing."  ' 

What  Tennyson    has  said  of  Virtue,   Browning  would  say 
of  each  soul: 

Nay,  but  she  aimed  nv)t  at  glory,  no  lover  of  glory  she; 
Give  her  the  glory  of  {/oiiifj  on  and  still  to  be. ' 

Thus  Browning  lays  stress  on  the  process  of  develop- 
ment, and  is  much  less  interested  in  the  result.  Or  what 
would  be  truer  to  say,  he  sees  the  result  in  the  process  and 
draws  no  line  of  separation  between  them.  He  sees  each 
incident  sub  specie  aeteryiitatis,  and  therefore  fraught  with  an 
infinite  significance.  He  believes  as  passionately  as  Dante 
that  the  soul  can  attain  to  the  Truth;  but,  with  him  the 
struggle  toward  the  highest  is  the  attainment  of  the  Truth, 
because  by  the  struggle  are  called  forth  the  capabilities 

•  A  l.iath  in  tlir  JJai  it. 


1 


IRTKt  DUOTION. 


17 


and  potentialities  of  the  soul.  The  perfection  of  the  seal 
Dante  compares  to  the  calm  rest  of  the  beast  in  its  familiar 
lair;'  but  Browning  never  represents  the  soul  as  having 
already  attained.  "What's  come  to  perfection  perishes," 
is  held  to  be  true  in  life  as  in  art;  and  the  soul  is  never 
represented  at  rest,  but  as  in  eternal  procesf  of  develop- 
ment: 

"How  inexhaustibly  the  spirit  growsl 

One  object,  she  semned  erewhile  born  to  reach 

With  her  whole  energies  and  die  content, — 

So  like  a  wall  at  the  world's  edge  it  stood, 

With  naught  beyond  to  live  for,— is  that  reached? — 

Already  are  new  undreamed  energies 

Outgrowing  under,  and  extending  farther 

To  a  new  object;  there's  another  world."  • 

The  dying  Paracelsus  was  at  last  made  wise  to  see  his 
former  error  in  despising  what  man  had  accomplished  in 
the  past,  vjnce  he  would  have  men  despise  the  past,  as 
"  only  a  scene  of  degradation,  ugliness  and  tears,  the  rec- 
ord of  disgraces  best  forgotten,  a  sullen  page  in  human 
chronicles  fit  to  erase. "  And  he  now  saw  how  false  were 
his  hopes  to  "  change  man's  condition  "  in  "  one  day,  one 
moment's  space.  "  He  now  perceived  that  "  there  exists  no 
law  of  life  outside  of  life,"  and  that  perfection  is  attained 
"  painfully,  while  hope  and  fear  and  love  shall  keep  us 
man."     Now  Love  taught  him 

'•To  trace  love's  faint  beginnings  in  mankind. 

To  know  even  hate  is  but  a  mask  cf  love's, 

To  see  a  good  in  evil,  and  a  hope 

In  ill-success;  to  sympathize,  be  proud 

Of  their  half-reasons,  faint  aspirings,  dim 

Struggles   or  truth,  their  poorest  fallacies. 

Their  prejudice  and  fears  and  cares  and  doubts; 

All  with  a  touch  of  nobleness,  despite 

Their  error,  upward  tending  all  though  weak."  * 

This  not  only  is  the  final  faith   of  Paracelsus:  it    is  the 
poet's  own  essential  view  of  life;  and  from  this  we  can  see 

>  Divina  Commedia,  Puradiao,  IV,  11,  I2i-U9. 

*  Lvtria,  Act,  V . 

*  Paracelsun.  V. 

2 


18 


nROWNINO  S    verse-form:    IT8    ORCMNIC    CHARACTER. 


why  the  incidents  in  the  devolopineiit  of  souls  were  of  such 
supreme  signiticance  to  him.     Hence  we   see,   too,  the  dra- 
matic character  of  his  genius;  for  it  is  the  essence  of  the 
dramatist  to  be  supremely  interested  in   men.     But  while 
Browning  is  dramatic,  he  is  so   in  a  peculiar  way.     He  is 
interested  in  the  incidents   of  a   soul,  primarily,  and  not 
with  man  in  action.     Thus  we  can  see  the  truth  of  the  criti- 
cism that,  as  a  rule,  his  dramas  are  deficient  in  action,  and 
are  studies  of  single  characters.'     He   is  interested  in  the 
inner  history  of  men.  rather  than  in  the  outer  act,   and  he 
could  not  give  the  requisite  attention  to  outward  accesso- 
ries necessary  to  the   drama.     No  one    knew   Browning's 
weakness  in  the  drama  better  than   himself.     It  is    not  at 
all  a  characteristic  form  of  his  art;  and  he  was  led  to  it  by 
particular    circumstances,    not    throusrh  the    spontaneous 
working  of  his  genius.    It  could  not  be  otherwise.    Brown- 
ing was  never  interested  in  groups  of  persons,  but  in  indi- 
vidual souls.     He  was  not  interested  in  the  play  of  men  on 
one  another;  but  in  the  relations  which   men's  souls  hold 
to  the  world  about  them.     His  chief  interest  is  not  in  what 
man  does,  but  in  what  he  /v. 

If  the  regular  drama  was  an  unsuitable  instrument  of 
expression  for  Browning,  his  genius  ....s  taken  up  and 
adapted  to  its  own  purposes,  one  peculiarly  fitted  for  its 
use— the  "dramatic  monologue."  In  this  form  all  his 
most  characteristic  work  is  cast.  It  is  described  by  him- 
self as  "poetry,  always  dramatic  in  principle,  and  so  many 
utterances  of  so  many  imaginary  persons,  not  mine."  This 
art-form  stands  midway  between  the  soliloquy  and  the 
drama  proper  by  having  on  the  one  hand  more  than  one 
dramatis  persona:  and  by  having  on  the  other  only  one 
speaker.  The  speaker  is  taken  in  the  moment  of  some  crisis, 
some  great  temptation,  or  other  experience  which  cuts 
down  through  all  the  masks  of  convention,  self-deceit  or 
cunning,  and  leaves  the  soul  in  its  essential  vileness  or 

'  Wallop,     The  Greater  Victorian  Poem. 


INTRODUCTION. 


19 


purity  clear  and  manifest  to  our  sight.  In  tliesp  circum- 
stances the  speaker  gives  his  account  of  the  experience  to 
another  person  who  is  listening.  Of  this  second  person  — 
and  by  his  presence  the  dramatic  element  of  the  poem 
enters  —  we  know  only  by  means  of  the  words  or  actions 
of  the  speaker.  But  by  repetition  of  this  second  person's 
words,  by  answering  his  questions  or  objections,  the  char- 
acter and  belief  of  the  silent  person  aro  given  as  clearly 
as  the  speaker's  own. 

This  second  person  is  rarely,  if  ever,  a  puppet  at  which 
the  speaker  directs  his  words,  and  which  is  only  an  excuse 
for  the  speaker's  expressing  himself.  Though  some  of  the 
monologues  shade  down  so  as  to  be  almost  indistinguish- 
able from  the  soliloquy,  there  is,  for  the  most  part,  in  each 
poem  a  dramatic  situation  which  could  not  have  come  into 
existence  had  the  persons  of  the  poem  been  other  than  they 
are.  A  Forgiveness,  for  instance,  reveals  at  the  end  a  most 
striking  dramatic  situation  — a  husband  confessing  to  the 
priest  who  was  responsible^ for  the  murder  of  the  wife.  In 
the  love  poems,  on  the  other  hand,  the  dramatic  element  is 
often  weak,  and  the  song  becomes  a  simple  soliloquy. 
Cristina,  Evelyn  Hope,  and  Love  Among  the  Jiuins  are  poems 
of  this  class;  and  it  is  to  be  noted  that  where  the  dramatic 
element  is  weak,  the  lyric  element  is  correspondingly 
strong,  and  the  poems  are  finished  with  elaboration  and 
polish. 

Since  the  whole  dramatic  situation  is  left  to  be  gathered 
as  we  go  along,  from  the  speaker's  words  alone,  this  form 
is  a  difficult  one;  though  most  of  the  difficulties  are  re- 
moved when  we  understand  its  principles.  But  this  form 
of  Browning's  poetry,  more  than  anything  else,  has  led 
people  to  declare  it  obscure  and  inartistic.  Therefore  an 
appreciation  of  the  method  of  this  form  is  the  one  pre- 
requisite of  seeing  the  organic  nature  of  the  whole  body 
of  his  work.  Only  by  a  proper  appreciation  of  the  nature 
of  the  dramatic  monologue  can  all  the  elemr    's  of  expres- 


20 


BROWNING'B    VER8E-F0BU:    ITS   OROANIC   CUABACTEB. 


sion  in  his  poetry  be  perceived.  The  form  of  the  mono- 
logue demands,  as  a  rule,  terseness  and  closeness  of  speech ; 
and  its  dramatic  nature  demands  abrupt  turns  of  speech, 
sudden  transitions,  and  even  ellipses,  to  express  the 
changes  of  mood,  and  turns  of  argument,  induced  by  the 
silent  second  person.  The  whole  situation  must  be  grasped, 
and  all  interpreted  in  the  light  of  it.  We  must  imagine  the 
exact  circumstances;  and  it  will  be  found  that  the  more 
perfectly  we  do  so,  the  more  perfectly  the  whole  poem  will 
be  found  to  answer  to  Aristotle's  dictum,  and  will  be  found 
to  have  "  for  its  subject  a  single  action,  whole  and  com- 
plete, with  a  beginning,  a  middle,  and  an  end,  and  will  tuus 
resemble  a  living  organism." '  The  more  we  enter  into  the 
spirit  of  the  dramatic  monologue,  the  more  apparent  will 
become  the  orderly  arrangement  of  all  its  parts,  —  plot, 
character,  language,  metre;  and  the  more  will  the  poem  as 
an  organic  whole  commend  itself  to  our  sense  of  harmony 
and  beauty.  And  that  is  what  is  meant  by  saying  that  his 
art  is  completely  organic.  Nothing  is  explained  in  an  ex- 
ternal manner;  but  all  is  embodied. 

Richard  Holt  Hutton  has  said  of  Browning  that  he  "  can- 
not paint  action  " ;  but  that  he  is  "  a  great  master  of  the  in- 
tellectual approaches  to  action  ".  ^  This  criticism  falls  be- 
side the  mark;  for  it  fails  to  recognize  the  fact  that  Brown- 
ing holds  in  inseparable  unity  thought  and  action,  and  repre- 
sents them  as  one.  He  represents  the  character  and  the 
action  which  is  the  natural  outcome  of  that  character.  In 
the  words  of  Mabie,  the  dramatic  monologue  has  this  great 
advantage  over  other  forma  of  expression,  that  it  gives  us, 
with  the  truth,  the  character  which  that  truth  has  formed.* 
It  combines  in  a  peculiar  manner  the  lyric,  introspective 
development  of  poetry,  with  the  objectivity  of  the  ancient 
draca,  without  giving  undue  prominence  to  either  tendency. 

Wo,  lies,  XX I II.,  1. 

*Esaay$  Literary  and  Theological. 

'  h'isayt  in  Literary  Inter f /relation,  p.  134. 


INTRODUCTION. 


21 


Those  who  deny  to  Browning  "  the  sense  of  form  "  may 
mean  that  he  has  never  patiently  elaborated  his  poetry 
after  it  is  once  conceived;  never  recast,  revised,  or  polished, 
as  one  would  a  gem.  In  this  sense.  Browing  would  be  the 
last  to  claim  the  "  sense  of  form  ".  But  if  by  this  term  is 
meant  the  power  of  conception  and  execution  at  a  jet,  as  it 
were;  then  this  artistic  power  must  be  claimed  for  him.  It 
must  even  be  claimed  in  a  high  degree ;  for  in  the  work  of  few 
poets  do  we  meet  with  such  i.  spontaneous  blending  of  sound 
and  sense  into  one  organic  whole,  as  in  Browning.  Thought 
and  expression  are  blended  so  that  they  are  no  longer  two 
things,  but  one.  Speech  is  wedded  to  thought,  and  form 
and  conttat  are  become  one  flesh  in  the  dramatic  rmmologue. 

In  illustration  of  what  has  been  said,  let  us  now  take  an 
example  of  Browning's  work,  which  has  been  universally 
admired,  and,  by  an  examination  of  its  merits,  let  us  ar- 
rive at  some  of  the  reasons  why  we  give  it  our  approving 
admiration.  From  an  analysis  of  this  one  slight  example, 
we  may  be  able  to  discover  some  of  the  principles  which 
prevail  in  the  whole  body  of  his  poetical  work.  A  poem 
which  almost  all  critics  agree  in  considering  a  triumphant 
example  of  Browning's  method  is  My  Last  Duchess.  Ferrara, 
a  poem  which  appeared  in  1842,  in  "  Dramatic  Lyrics " 
(Bells  and  Pomegranates,  No.  III.) 

The  scene  is  laid  in  Ferrara,  whose  "wide  and  grass- 
grown  streets "  seemed  to  Childe  Ilarold  cursed  with  the 
"changing  mood  of  petty  power"  of  the  house  of  Este. 
Here  the  "  miserable  despot  tried  in  vain  to  quell  the  in- 
^sulted  mind  he  could  not  quench,"  and  even  yet  the  injured 
shade  of  Tasso  reproached  the  ungrateful  city,  in  which  he 
was  in  life  and  death  "  the  mark  where  Wrong  aim'd  with 
her  poisoned  arrows  —  but  to  miss. "  The  action  of  the  poem 
opens  at  a  characteristic  moment  in  the  life  of  the  speaker, 
the  Duke  of  Ferrara.  He  is  on  the  eve  of  betrothal  to  the 
daughter  of  the  Count;  and,  in  the  light  of  this  act,  and 
his  heartless  tale  of  his  heart-broken  "last  Duchess,"  his 


KROWNINd  S    VKRSE-KORM;    ITS    (»tlOANIC   CriARACTER. 


clKU'uctor  .stunds  forili  in  tlit^  stronffest  possible  relief  If 
the  plot  w(!re  cast  in  the  form  of  njirralion,  this  point  would 
be  the  climax.  We  see  that  the  husband  who  classes  his 
wife's  portrait  with  the  Neptune  by  Claus  of  Innsbruck  is 
beyond  the  hope  of  redemption.  Nought  remains  but  the 
subsidence  of  the  plot  to  its  tragic  close. 

The  situation  is  this:  The  Duke  has  retired  from  the 
company,  assembled,  perhaps,  to  celebrate  his  betrothal. 
He  displays  the  portrait  of  his  dead  wife  to  the  agent  of 
the  Count,  who  is  a  dilettante  triller  in  art,  like  himself. 
The  envoy  has  noted  the  smile  on  the  face  of  the  portrait, 
and  asked  how  the  artist  has  produced  it.  In  explaining 
"how  such  a  glance  came  there,"  he  incidentally,  and  by 
the  way,  mt-roiy.  tolls  how  he  at  once  crushed  the  smiles 
and  life  out  of  a  swoetand  lovely  woman.  It  is  to  be  noted 
that  he  never  thinks  of  the  crime  he  has  committed.  He 
is  wholly  uncon.scious  of  that.  His  mind  never  for  a  mo- 
ment dwells  on  the  loveliness  of  the  dead  woman.  Her  ex- 
cellences are  spoken  of  only  in  connection  with  his  ex- 
planation of  the  heartless  dilettante's  question.  Yes.  the 
portrait  is  life-like  without  a  doubt;  and,  that  point  settled, 
they  turn  from  the  picture  to  the  "company  below."  On 
the  way  down,  the  "  next  Duchess "  and  the  Neptune  oc- 
cupy iheir  attention  equally! 

In  the  versitication  of  this  poem,  the  most  marked  feature 
is  tlie  great,  freedom  of  How.  combined  with  terseness  of 
expression.  It  is  ia  the  rhyming  couplet,  but  the  rhyme 
does  not  obtrude  itself,  because  of  the  use  of  enjambement 
in  those  lines  where  the  thought  demanded  an  unbroken 
flow.  It  reads  like  blank  verse  through  most  of  the  poem, 
until  within  a  dozen  lines  of  the  end,  when  the  rhyme 
comes  out  strongly,  completing  at  once  the  sense  and  the 
effect  of  regularity  and  systtm  in  the  structure  of  the 
verse : 


n 


INTRODUCTION. 


S3 


That's  my  lust  Dii(;hoHfs  parntt«<l  rm  tho  wall, 
Lookint;  as  if  she  woro  alive.     I  rail 
Ttiiit  pifi't*  a  wonder,  now:  Frii  I'andolf s  hands 
Worked  h\iHily  a  day,  and  thero  she  standH. 
.')     Wiirt  please  yoii  wit  and  look  at  her  t     I  Haid 
"  Fn'i  I'andolf "  by  deHif^n.  for  never  read 
Stranf,'erH  like  j'on  that  pietiired  countenance, 
The  depth  and  pansion  of  itH  earnest  glanro, 
Hut  to  myHelf  they  turne<l  (since  none  putftby 

10    The  curtain  I  have  dr^wji  flir_i[""!  1^1  Ij 

And  HeemefTaTTriey  would  ask  nie,  if  they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there;  ho,  not  the  first 
Art)  you  to  turn  und  ask  thus.     Sir,  't  was  not 
Her  husband's  |)reHence  ofily,  cailod  that  spot 

1.1    Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps 

Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  .say  "  Her  mantle  laps 

"  Over  my  lady's  wrist  tiM)  much,"  or  "  Paint 

"  Must  never  hope  to  rcprcxluce  the  faint 

"  Half-flush  that  dies  alc.n^r  her  throat:  "  such  stuff 

20     Wan  courtesy,  she  thoufjht,  and  <'ause  enough 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 
A  heart  —  how  shall  I  say  ?  —  too  soon  maile  glad, 
Too  cj'.'^ily  impr(s.<(  (!;  she  liked  whatc'er 
She  looked  on,  and  he;-  looks  went  everywhere. 

2')    Sir,  "t  was  all  one  !     My  favour  at  her  breast, 
Thedn){)pin^r  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  otlicious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
She  ro<ie  with  round  the  terrace  -  all  and  each 

30    Would  draw  fntm  her  alike  the  approving  speech. 

Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  mep,--goofl !    but  thanked 
Somehow      I  know  not  how  —as  if  she  ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anyijod\  's  gift.     Who  'd  st  .op  to  blame 

3^)    This  sort  of  trifling  ?     Even  had 'you  skill 

In  speech  —  (which  I  have  noti   -  to  make  ycjur  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  "Just  this 
"Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  mi.ss 
"  Or  there  exceed  the  mark  "  —  ;>nd  if  she  let 

40    Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 

Her  wit  to  yours,  forsoolh,  anrl  in;ide  excuse. 
—  E'en  then  v.ouid  be  some  stooping;  and  I  choose 
Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir.  she  smiled,  no  doubt. 
Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 

45    Much  the  same  smile  ?     This  grew:  I' gave  commands; 
Then  all  smiles  stopped  together.     There  she  stands 
As  if  ^livc.     Will  't  please  you  ri.se  ?    We  '11  meet 


■1^ 


21 


HROWSINO  8    VERSE-KORM:    ITU    ORGANIC   CHARACTER. 


Tho  cnnipany  below,  thf>n.     I  repotit, 

Tho  Count  your  master's  known  inunifirencii 
JiO     Is  aniplp  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  he  disaliowe'l; 

Thouuli  hi^  fJiir  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 

At  starting;,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we  '11  t^o 

Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Ne[)tune,  though. 
55    Taminfj  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 

Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me  I 

(     Though  the  even  flow  of  the  verse  in  this  poem  is  very 
^noticeable,    it   will  be    found  on    examination    to  have    no 
,  merely    mechanical    regularity.     As  a  whole,   the  verse  of 
j    the  poem  is  calm  and  stately,  in  keeping  with   the  proud, 
^exclusive  character  of  the  speaker.     But,  when  the  thought 
and  feeling  demand   it,  there  are  departures  from  the  nor- 
mal iambic  flow,  which  are  most  expressive.     Lines  1  and 
2  have   the  unaccented  syllable  of  the  first  foot    dropped, 
giving  to  both  a  stronijly  accented  beginning.     This  must 
be  felt  to  be  organic,  as  well  as  the  departures  in  lines  17, 
(Her  mantle  laps  Over  my  lady's  wrist);  2^,  (some  officious 
fool    Broke    in  the  orchard);    and  43,  (I  choose    Never    to 
stoop).       The   dropping  of  the   unaccented    syllable    (the 
anacrusis)  gives  to  these  lines  a  new  and  most  expressive 
melody. 

The  place  of  the  caesura  varies  so  as  to  give  differences 
of  movement  to  certain  passages.  Thus,  in  11.  1-13,  it  comes 
about  the  middle,  with  the  exception  of  11.  2,  5  and  10. 
This  gives  a  calm  and  flowing  movement  in  harmony  with 
the  proud  speaker.  In  11.  43  47  it  comes,  with  one  excep- 
tion (1.  46),  after  the  second  accent.  This,  with  tho  short 
sentences,  gives  an  arrested  movement  and  broken  flow  ex- 
pressive of  the  cruel  tragedy  which  crushed  that  joyous 
life. 

The  verses  are  arranged  in  organic  groups,  which  are,  to 
all  intents  and  purposes,  strojphes.  Contrast,  for  instance, 
the  short.  abrui)t  groups  in  11.  42-45;  45-40;  4G-47  and  47-48, 


•3f 


INTRODUCTION. 


25 


with  the  long  group,  48-53,  which  follows.     Note,  too,  how 
this  is  interrupted  by  the  short  strophe, 

Nay,  wo  '11  go 
Together  down,  sir, 

which  is  expressive  of  the  action.       This  is  followed  by  a 

strophe  which  carries  the  poem  to  its  melodious  end. 

Another  element  which  is^  important  in  Browning's  poe- 
try may  be  noted  —  the  alliteration.  In  1.  2,  'Looking  as 
if  she  were  a/ive.  I  ca//, '  the  alliteration  has  a  fusing  effect 
on  the  whole  line.  In  II.  18  and  19,  'the /aint  Hal//lush,' 
the  two  lialf-lines  are  fused.  This  form  is  frequent  in 
Browning.  Again,  in  line  27  there  is  an  example  of  allit- 
eration within  a  phrase  i.i  the  single  line. 

In  the  analysis  of  Browning's  poetic  art.  as  seen  in  this 
example,  we  have  tried  to  keep  to  the  front  the  fact  that 
all  the  elements  of  poetic  expression  —  foot,  line,  strophe, 
metro,  or  what  not,  —  are  not  considered  as  constituting  an 
end  In  themselves;  but  are  consistently  regarded  as  the 
incarnation  of  the  thought,  emotion  and  action  of  the  poem. 
We  have  seen  how  the  various  elements  have  an  artistic 
significance  only  through  their  being  the  embodiment  of 
the  poet's  thought;  and  how  the  form  assumes  Protean 
shapes  in  resi)0use  to  the  demands  of  the  informing  spirit. 

Moreover,  we  have  seen  that  this  great  variety  of  form 
has  caused  the  verse  to  be  condemned  as  shaj)eless,  and 
beyond  the  reach  of  a  justifying  analysis,  by  those  who 
have  not  recognized  its  organic  character.  It  is  proposed 
therefore,  to  examine  the  verse-form  of  Browning  as 
shown  in:  (1)  The  Ver.seForms;  (2)  The  Strophe-Forms; 
(3)  The  Blank  Verse.  The  attempt  will  he  made  to  test 
each  form  as  the  organic  exf)re.->sion  of  the  poefs  mind 
working  through  many  forms;  but  chielly  through  his  most 
characteristic  art-form-  -the  dramatic  monologue. 


2G 


ItlloWNINO   s    VFKHK-KOKM:    ITS    ORdAMC    CHAKArTER. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THK    VKKSH-FOKMS. 

The  analysis  of  tlio  pootn  in  tho  first  chai)ter  sliows  the 
proat  froodoni  of  rhylhin  which  is  cliaracterisiic  of  Brown- 
ing? s  most  admired  work.  This  freedom  has  also  been  explain- 
ed and  justified,  on  the  jjround  tliat  metre  is  not  re'^ardod  by 
him  as  an  end    in  itself.     Mere    smoothness    was    the   last 
thinp  to  whii-h  lie  would  have  thouf,'ht  of  striving  to  attain; 
for  the  metre  is  not  considered  as  anything,'  ai)art  from  the 
content  of  the  poem,  bin  ;',s  its  very  form  and  embodiment. 
Since    the    rhythm    is  obedient   to    the    many  moods    and 
emotions  of  tlie  poet,  the  verse  has  a  freedom  of  movement 
which  is  displeasing  to  many  who  have  been  accustomed  to 
a  smoother  flow  in  verse.     Tho  result  of  this  has  been  that 
Browninir  has  been   coniiemned   as    'rujrj^ed,'   'harsh.'  and 
'unmusical.'     This  charge  he  has   borne   in    common   with 
those  poets  who  have    attempted   a  rhythm  more  complex 
than    is    usual— with   Milton  in     the    choruses  of   Samson 
A(/(»iistrs,  and  with  Tennyson  in  ^f(nltl.     People  are  loth  to 
oondeuiu  such  acknowledged  artists  as  Milton  and  Tenny- 
son, as  so  much  of  their  work  is  pronounced  by  the  common 
voice  ti.  be  artistic,  and  is  amply  appreciated.   Yet,  Tenny- 
son preferred  reading  M.nal  to  any  other  poem  of  his,    be- 
cause of  the  greater  complexity  of  its  music.      His   poetry 
is  taken  as  ilio  extreme  length  to  which  musical  verse  can 
be  carried:  and  yet  he  did  not  regard  mere   smoothness  of 
verse  as  an  object    to    be   striven    for.     His  own   practice 
shows  far  otherwise.     Thus,  in  his  blank   verse,    he  does 
not  maintain  the  regular  alternation  of  unaccented  and  ac- 
cented syllables:  but  frequently  writes  such  a  line  as: 


THE    VERSE-FORMS. 


or 


Witli  tho  air  of  the  trumpet  round  him,  and  loaps  in; 


Biit)l)lc(i  the  nitflitinKiilt*  and  hoodod  not; 
and  lines  like  those  occur  in  his  most  carefully-wrought 
poems.  In  protest  af,'ainst  those  who  demand  a  mechanical 
regularity  in  rhythm,  "he  declared  that  his  own  poetry  was 
easy  enouph  to  read  aloud,  if  people  would  only  read  it  just 
as  it  was  written   and  not  try  to  force  the  accent."^ 

By  this  he  means  that  his  verse  is  accentual  verse,  pri- 
marily; th(>  accents  making  the  verse,  and  not  the  verse  the 
accents;  and  the  accents  being  those  which  are  natural  to 
the  language  used  to  express  the  particular  idea  or  emo- 
tion. The  same  thing  is  stated  by  Coleridge  in  the  preface 
Xo  (Jhristdlnl:  "The  metre  of  the  r//r/.s7a/>f'/ is  not,  properly 
speaking,  irregular,  though  it  may  seem  so  from  its  being 
founded  on  a  new  principle:  namely,  that  of  counting  in 
each  line  the  accents,  not  the  syllables.  Though  the  latter 
may  vary  from  seven  to  twelve,  yet  in  each  line  the  ac- 
cents will  be  found  to  bo  only  four.  Nevertheless  this  oc- 
casional variation  in  number  of  syllables  is  not  introduced 
wantonly,  or  for  the  mere  end  of  convenience,  but  in  cor- 
respondence with  some  transition  in  the  nature  of  the  im- 
agery or  ])assion." 

Both  of  these  poets  were  protesting  against  the  judg- 
ment of  their  poetry  by  too  narrow  canons.  Both  are  in 
substantial  agreement;  and  though  neither  attempted  to 
give  any  scientific  account  of  his  own  workmanship,  their 
general  meaning  is  perfectly  clear.  The  words  of  Coler- 
idge imply  that  there  is  a  unit  of  measure  in  the  line  — 
the  yoo^  —  which  is  made  uj)  of  two  i)'jrts,  one  accented  syl- 
lable and  one  or  two  unaccented  syllables.  The  accented 
syllable  is  the  primary  and  most  important  element  of 
the  foot,  being  the  nucleus,  as  it  were,  around  which 
•are  grouped  the  unaccented  syllables  in  varying  number 
and  order.     The  number  of  the  accented  syllables  indicates 

'  J.  KnowU'.-i.-  .Miirlrrnth  Crnhtr;/,  .Jan.,  IWU. 


28 


imoWNINU   B     VrilRI';   KOKM       IIH    «)H<lANir    rilAltAf'TFIl. 


i\\o  inimlxM-  of  foot  in  llio  lino;  iiiid  tlio  nnarcoTitod  sylln- 
l)I«>s,  Morordin^  to  thoi?'  nninhor  aixl  gr(ni|)ii)^  iihout  Iho 
accoiilod  sylliil)los.  mihI  tlio  iitiiforiiiity  in  oc(Mirron<',o  of 
thpso  f;ro»i)»s,  givo  tlio  spocial  rliytlini  to  oacli  lino  and 
groiips  of  linos,   or  stroplios. 

Tlnis  tlio  «'Iassos  of  fool  aro: 

An  acoontod  syllahlo,  followod  by  ono  uiukm  ontod  Ryllu- 
l)lo  ('rroohoo).' 

An  aooontod  syllultlo,  jM'Ocodod  by  ono  unar<'ont(;d  syllji- 
blo  (lan)b). 

An  :i Mitod  syHabl<>,  followod  by    two  utuK  :'ontod  sylla- 

1)1  OS  (Dactyl  I. 

An  a('»'onl«'(i  syllablo,  proc«<dod  by  two  nnaoconlod  sylla- 
bios  ( ,\nii|>;ost ). 

Linos  uiado  up  of  an  nninlorrnptod  sorios  of  oa,oli  of 
tho  olasscs  of  foot  ati>  loiinod  M'rocliaif,  ianibio,  naclylic, 
and  Aiiapa'stif  linos.  iospooli\  oly.  In  addition  to  tlios<^ 
four  oImssos  of  linos,  tboro  is  anotlior  lar^o  and  important, 
class,  whit'li  has  arliytliin  not  oxplicablo  in  arcoidaiico  willi 
tln^  constitution  of  oitlior  of  tlioso  class(vs.  It  is  nsiial  to 
roduco  il  ti>  oitlior  ono  of  tlioni  by  tlioorotically  dropping 
or  aildin^  syllables.  Ibil  lliis  class  is  so  iinpin-tant.  iti 
Hrownin^.  and  has  such  ii  liist  met  <|uality,  that  any  ado- 
(piattM'lassitication  of  his  nuMros  nnist.  ;xivo  it,  a  sopa.rat«5 
phuMv  An  oxatnination  of  (his  class  shows  that  tho  vorso 
is  niatlo  up  in  ono  of  two  ways:  (1)  by  tho  blondinjj^  of 
«<actyls  with  trochoos;  (L')  by  tho  blending  of  anapiosts  with 
iambs.  Tho  (JrooU  prosodists  roc(*iniiz(<d  a.  similar  lino  in 
(trook  ]ioctry.  and  called  it  a  Lo^ao'dic  lino.  b(>causo  its 
niovomont  rosomblod  that  of  proso  (Aiiyos).  This  name  wo 
shall  adopt,  as  it  is  doscriptivo  of  tlio  nobU*  froodotn  of 
somo  of  Hrowning's  host  vorso;  combining,  as  it  does,  tho 
unfottorod  niovomont  of  tho  noblest  proso  with  tlio  true 
poolic  cadiMico, 

'  Tr,u'>iif.    Till'  rofiiiiiii  rlnssiriil  ni>iiit>iu<lntiin<  i<<  i-otniiiml,  ns  it  i-^  riiiniliiirououKb 

not    to  Iv  Illl-UMlllT    tOOll. 


TIIK     VRHHK    KOIIMH 


29 


'I'll*'  Itiisis  rf)r  tlui  classification  of  |{rf)wriiriK'R  iTi<;troR 
will.  Miorcforo,  bo; 

(\)  Tlin  UiiKl  of  foot  (or  f«!oti  wliicJi  \>r'\\H)t)(U}riil*i  in  tho 
lino. 

(Ill  inany  lines  tlicrn  arc  intcrch!ir)f<''S  of  feet  wliirli  ar« 
so  slif<lit  !;s  not  todisfiirb  the  regular  movement.) 

(">  'I'lie  niitriher  of  feet  in  the  line.* 

I.       TKOCIJAIf'   MIOTKrCH. 

fjines  of  (»ne  foot: 

Kvor  ' 

Nnvr     ( I ,ifi    ■  II  II    liui'i  ) 
l>H,y  ,1      '  < /'i/i/iii  /'iinniHj 

l/ine.s  of   '  wo   feel  : 

Ami  llic  liliio  (•><> 

I  >OMr  ;inrl 'lowy     (.(   I'l'il'i    Wniiinn) 

W'lijlc  I  live  ,1     i  III  A    )'  III ) 

Fjines  of   three  f«>el : 

Moo  tln' rrodtiirc  Hialkilit,'      f,l    Whiiiuii'k  Ln-.l    W'li'l) 
Was  it  wroiiK  to  own  ^      '^  I n  A    Yi  <ir\ 


Fjines  of  four  feet: 
Whon  hf  IliiinhoM  rcfortinn, 
Khifi'  iinij  fork  In-  riovr  lays  fi 

I  Till'  iK'ri'iitiMl  ~:vll>ilil>'S  (irn  iMilic.'itiMJ  ju  full  f.iri'd  IcttiT-f. 

'"I'Ik-  C'lirct    liiiliciili'K  II  C'llnl'i-lic  lirii\  I,  c  ,  ni,"  in  wliirh  tln'  In-t  f<K,t  i<  irirf,rn|.l<'t'' 

*  It  '\>*  to    111'  Mi(t''il  fJKit    iliffi  ri  III!  H  (t(  uln  HH  (in   tli'^   H'"/('r;il  (if'cnt'fi 
HyiliihlcH,    iiii'l    (in    tlic    nnMiccfiti'd    Myll;it)l<-;,    arc    ridt    fii-rc     t;il<<ri    into 
accdHtit.     'I'd  (ill  ,s(i  Wdulij  inaUf  ttic  siil/jcct    t'.'i  c'lriifi '■  v.      iJiit  ttic^c  flifT 
iTcru'cs  arc  itnpurtant. 

'riiiiH,  in  dactv  lir  and  iinapa'-;ti('  lirnM,  the  (|ifriT>rii'-i  'if  -^tr<■s^  on  ttin 
uiiacrcntcd  syllalilcs  t,'ivc  a  fiiiit  'if  ^  in'itcail  iJ  -  >  (,r  -  -  ,  Ki^'i'^t,' f^''"- 
Octir  nicasuri'. 

'I  III'  li't  I  ill. 'II  -'Ull''T  synrn],;it  ,i,ri,  vfry  nftiTi  at  tlir'  cIihi'  i,f  troctiair-  lin'H. 
Sync(i[iati<iii  aUn  nf.'urH  in  IIm'  lirn',  tuM  '^yllalilcs  ticjn!^'  siinii'timcs  -.yrjc  - 
Fiatcd,  ('.  (,'., 

Tlir  curd  ii'  I  he  cream  ■.  Ilnwcr  <i'  l(ic  ^ticat,  M'^  it  v.crc.  Ttiis  [(iv-H 
a  ticaiitifiil  ilTrct . 


30 


BROWNING'S    VERSK-FORM:    ITS    ORGANIC    CHARACTER. 


(The  whole   poem  of  i^i'lUofjuij  of  the  Spanish  Cloister   is 
written  in   alternate  iull  and  catalectic   lines,    and  shows 
well  the  eflect  of  the  dropping  of  the  unaccented  syllable.) 
Lines  of  five  feet: 
Thorc  they  are,  |i  luy  fifty  men  and  women  '     (One  Word  3fore) 
Here's  my  case.  ||  Of  old  I  used  to  love  him, 
This  same  unseen  friend  ||  before  I  knew  /\     {Fears  and  Scruples) 

Lines  of  six  feet: 
At  the  midnight  ||  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time. 

{KpUoyuc  to  '  Anolando  ') 
Where  the  (juiet  colored  end  ||  of  evening  smiles  ,\ 

(Love  Among  the  Ruins) 
Lines  of  seven  feet: 
No  example  of  a  full  verse. 
All  the  lon^;,  lone  summer  day,  H  that  greenwood  life  of  ours  /^ 

(Lyric,  to' The  Eagle') 

Lines  of  eight  feet: 

There's  a  woman  like  a  dew-drop,  she's  ||  so  purer  than  the  purest. 

(Mertoun's  Song,  in  ''The  "-Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon'') 

O'er  the  prandeur  and  the  beauty   ||  lavished  through  the  whole 

as^'ent;!  (La  Saisaiz.) 

II.      IAMBIC   METRES. 

"ines  of  one  foot: 
Beloved 
Removed     (Life  in  a  Love) 

Lines  of  two  feet: 
The  dim  dead  woe    (James  Tree's   Wife) 

Lines  of  tliree  feet.- 
As  one  at  first  believes    ( The  Lost  Mistress) 


Lines  of  four  feet: 
How  very  hard  it  is  to  be 
A  Christian!     Hard  for  you  and  me,   (Easter  Day) 


'The  II  mnrks  the  caesura,  which  is  "the  pause  atteDdioK  the  conclusion  of  a  period, 
or  of  t^oino  logical  section  of  a  i)ericMl  when  that  pause  occurs  any  where  else  than  at 
theendof  a  line."    Ma.^aon,  MHlon'i  Works,  Vol.  I,  cxxvii. 


THE    VEB8E-FORM8. 


31 


Lines  of  five  feet: 
Very  ('ommon,  of  course,  as  it  is  the  metre  of  blank  verso,  and  of  the 

heroic  rhyminj?  couplet. 
The  many  years  of  pain   ||  that  taught  me  art.     (Clron) 

Lines  of  six  feet: 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  ||  to  thee  its  dwelling  place. 

{In  A  Gondola) 
O  trip  and  .skip,  Elvire!   ||  Link  arm  in  arm  with  me.     (Fijinc) 

Lines  of  seven  feet: 
Be  love  your  light  and  trust  your  guide,  |!  with  the.se  explore  my 
heart.  (Llirir  f<>'\Shah  Ahbas.") 


III.      DACTYLIC   METRES. 

This  class  of  metres  is  very  scarce. 
Lines  of  two  feet : 
Digging  out  deniers.     {Pinf/nh  Sigfifs  II.) 


IV.      ANAPAESTIC  METRES. 

Lines  of  two  feet: 
Let  the  corpse  do  its  worst    (After) 

Lines  of  three  feet: 
Of  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less.    (Instans  Tyrannua) 

Lines  of  four  feet: 
As  she  brushed  it,  ij  the  cornice-wreath  blossomed  anew 

(Loif  In  a  Life) 
Not  a  word  to  each  other;   ||   we  kept  the  great  pace 

{G'hrnt  to  A  Lr) 

Lines  of  five  feet : 

On  my  knees  put  up  both  little  feet !  ||      I  was  sure  if  I  tried 

(The  IJnfjlis/iiii'jn  in  Italij) 

Lines  of  six  feet: 

'Tis  the  regular  pad  of  the  wolves  ||   in  pursuit  of  the  lives  in   the 
sledge     (fi-i'in  [n\novitch\ 


32 


HROWNINQ  8    VERSE-FORM:    ITS    ORGANIC    CHARACTEB. 


V.      LOGAOEDIC   MF.TfiES. 

This  class  of  metres  has  two  distinct  varieties,  which 
may  be  best  designated  Trochaiclogaoedic,  and  Iambic- 
logaoedic;  the  former  being  verses  which  begin  with  an 
accented  syllable,  and  the  latter  those  which  begin  with  an 
unaccented  syllable. 
Lines  of  two  feet: 
( Trnch-log.)    So  the  year's  done  with. 

Love  me  forever    (Earfh'a  Immortalities) 
(Iamb-li>(f.)    Ami  the  world  has  changed     {.Iftmea  Lee's  Wife  i) 

Lines  of  three  feet: 
( Trnch-loij.)    Cruniblintr  your  hounds  their  messes 

(So)i(f  in  'Pippa') 
{fninh-loy.)     I  know  there  shall  dawn  a  day    {Reverie) 

Lines  of  four  feet: 
{Trocfi-loij.)     Beautiful  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour.     {Evelyn  Hope.) 
{Iamb-log.)    And  quench  its  speed  in  the  slushy  sand 

{Meetinff  at  Night) 

Lines  of  five  feet: 
{Troch-log.)    Quenched  lay  their  caldron,  ||  cowered  i'  the  dust  the 

crew  ( The  Iting  and  the  Book,  I.,  584) 

{Iamb-log.)    The  curd  o"  the  cream,  i|  flower  o'  the  wheat  as  it  were. 

{The  liing  and  the  Book,  I.,  918) 

Lines  of  six  feet: 
{T/'o<'h-log.)    Would  that  the  structure  brave,  ||  the  manifold  music 
I  rear.  {Abt  Vogler) 

First  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  biassed,  ||  river  and  rock ! 

{Pheidippitles) 
(lamti-log.)    In  the  deep  of  our  land,  'tis  said,  ||  a  village  from  out 
the  woods.  (Ivan  Ivanovitch) 

Lines  of  seven  feel: 
(Troch-log.)    Hated  or  feared  the  more,— who  knows?  ||  —the  gen- 
uine wild  beast  breed  iJIalbert  and  Hob) 
{Iamb-log.)    My  grandfather  says  he  remembers  he  saw,  !|  when  a 
youngster  long  ago, 
On  a  bright  May  day,  a  strange  old  man,  ||  with  a  beard 
as  white  as  snow.  {Martin  Relph) 


THE    STROPOE-FOBMS. 


33 


CHAPTER  III. 


THE   STROPHE- FORMS. 

In  the  preceding  chapter  we  have  examined  the  individ- 
ual lines  of  Browning's  poetry,  and  have  seen  how  the 
greatest  variety  possible  in  their  complex  structure  may  be 
reduced  to  a  system,  by  considering  their  elemental  struc- 
ture. It  is  proposed  to  do  the  same  for  the  strophes,  of 
which  there  is  also  a  very  great  variety.  The  strophe  is 
a  more  complex  unity  than  the  line;  and,  with  Browning, 
it  may  be  said  to  be  the  primary  unit;  for  the  habitual  use  of 
enjambement,  even  in  his  longer  lines,  seems  to  make  it 
apparent  that  he  did  not  treat  the  line  as  a  unit  to  be 
considered  independently  of  th«  strophe. 

The  most  important  elements  of  the  strophe  are  the  line 
(or  verse)  and  rhyme.  By  the  structure  of  the  strophe, 
whether  corresponding  in  internal  structure,  or  length ;  or 
differing  in  both  or  either,  a  special  rhythm  is  imparted  to 
the  strophe-form,  which  marks  it  out  as  individual  and  dis- 
tinct in  kind.  The  rhymes,  by  their  arrangement,  bind  the 
strophe  together  mo-  e  or  less  closely,  according  as  they 
are  made  more  or  less  prominent.  Besides  these  two  combin- 
ing and  fusing  agencies  there  is  another,  which  gives  to  th» 
strophe  its  toning  —  alliteration.  It  is  frequently  very  im- 
portant in  Browning's  poetry,  and  its  elusive  effects  are 
scarcely  ever  absent. 

Thus  the  structure  of  the  strophe  is  very  complex ;  and 
the  success  to  which  any  poet  attains  in  its  use  is  one  of 
the  highest  tests  of  his  power.  The  real  strophe  must 
be  a  structural  unit,  and  not  a  merely  mechanical  group  of 
verses.  The  poet  must  have  breathed  into  it  the  breath 
of  life,  and  the  whole  must  be  an  organism,  in  which  every 


34 


urownino's  verse-fobm:  its  oroanic  charactks. 


member  lias  its  special  function  and  which  is  quick  with 
"the  mystery  of  vital  movement."  This  test  as  a  poet 
Browning  stands  most  admirably.  Few  English  poets  show 
a  greater  variety  of  strophe  forms;  and  among  all  his  stro- 
phes there  is  scarcely  one  which  is  merely  a  succession 
of  verses.  In  almost  every  instance  the  sympathetic 
reader  must  be  aware  of  the  presence  of  an  informing  life, 
out  of  which  the  form  has  inevitably  grown. 
There  are  three  classes  of  strophe-form  in  Browning: 

I.  Regular  Forms.  Those  which  are  members  of  a  series 
of  uniform  groups  of  lines. 

II.  Irregular  Forms.  Those  which  perform  all  the  func- 
tions of  a  strophe,  but  which  are  individual  in  their  struc- 
ture. 

III.  Those  which  are  in  themselves  complete  poems. 
Under  each  of  these  three  divisions  the  strophes  will  be 

classified  according  to  the  number  of  lines  of  (a)  equal,  (b) 
of  unequal  length. 


I.     REGULAR  FORMS. 

Strophes  of  two  lines, 
(a)  Lines  of  equal  length. 
(1)  Four  feet: 

The  Boy  and  the  Angel.     The  short  and  fitful  strophes  are 
most  appropriate  to  the  story  of  the  humble  worshipper  of 

God. 

MorniDg,  evening,  noon  and  night, 
"  Praise  (3od  !"  sang  Theocrite. 

Then  to  his  poor  trade  he  turned. 
Whereby  the  daily  meal  was  earned. 

Hard  he  laboured,  long  and  well; 
O'er  his  work  the  boy's  curl  fell. 

But  ever,  at  each  period, 

He  stopped  and  sang,  "  Praise  Grod." 


THE    STROPHE-FORMS. 


35 


(2)  Five  feet: 

The  iambic  pentapody  in  rhyming  couplets  is  the  form 
of  Sordello.  It  is  handled  with  the  same  freedom  as  is  seen 
in  the  work  of  Marlowe;  and,  later,  in  Shelley  and  Keats. 
As  contrasted  with  the  manner  of  Pope,  enjambement  is 
very  frequent,  which  gives  to  the  verse  a  more  flowing, 
and  less  epigrammatic,  effect.  The  place  of  the  caesura 
varies  within  wide  limits  in  Browning's  heroic  couplets, 
which  imparts  to  the  verse  a  freedom  of  movement  similar 
to  that  of  blank  verse. 

His  darling  stoops 

With  no  quenched  lights,  desponds  with  no  blank  troops 

Of  disenfranchised  brilliances,  for,  blent 

Utterly  with  thee,  its  shy  element 

Like  thine  upburneth  prf)8perous  and  clear. 

Still,  what  if  I  approach  the  august  sphere 

Named  now  with  only  one  name,  disentwine 

That  under-current  soft  and  argentine 

From  its  fierce  mate  in  the  majestic  mass 

Leavened  as  the  sea  whose  fire  was  mixed  with  glass 

In  John's  transcendent  vision, —  launch  once  more 

That  lustre?    Dante,  pacer  of  the  shore 

Where  glutted  hell  disgorgeth  filthiest  gloom, 

Unbitten  by  its  whirring  sulphur-spume  — 

Or  whence  the  grieved  and  obscure  waters  slope 

Into  a  darkness  quieted  by  hope  ; 

Plucker  of  amaranths  grown  beneath  Grod'a  eye 

In  gracious  twilight  where  his  chosen  lie.  {Book  I.) 

In  this  extract  the  rhyme  does  not  interfere  with  the  on- 
ward movement  of  the  verse;  the  couplet- structure  being 
weakened  by  the  enjambement  in  the  first  part.  But  the 
function  of  the  couplet  is  emphasized  in  the  last  six  lines. 
The  pauses  are  not  in  the  interior  of  the  line,  but  at  the 
end;  and  each  couplet  is  as  isolated  and  distinct  as  the 
Hell,  Purgatory  and  Heaven,  which  they  describe. 

Saul  is  a  splendid  example  of  a  five-foot  anapaestic 
rhythm,  where  the  young  enthusiasm  of  the  prophet  is 
heard  in  the  impetuous  sweep  of  the  verse: 


36  BROWNINO's    VERSE-KORM:    ITS   ORGANIC    CUARACTEB. 

Ab  I  Hnntr,  — "  Oh,  our  manhfKKl's  prime  vipor  !     No  spirit  feels  waste, 

Not  a  inusclf  is  stopped  in  its  piaj  inj;  nor  sinew  unbraced. 

Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living  !    The  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock, 

The  stronK  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver  shock 

Of  the  plunge  in  a  po<il'a  living  water,  the  hunt  of  the  bear, 

And  the  sultrinoss  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his  lair. 

And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river  channel  where  bulrushes  tell 

That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well." 

(3)  Six  feet: 

'Twas  Bedford  special  Assize,  one  daft  Midsummer's  day: 
A  broiling  blasting  June,—  was  never  its  like,  men  say. 

— (AVrf  Bratta.) 

'Tis  the  regular  pad  of  the  wolves  in  pursuit  of  the  lives  in  the  sledge! 
An  army  they  are:  close-packed  they  press  like  the  thrust  of  a  wedge: 
They  increase  as  they  hunt:  for  I  see,  through  the  pine-trunks  ranged 

each  side, 
Slip  forth  new  fiend  and  fiend,  make  wider  and  still  more  wide 
The  four-footed  steady  advance.    The  foremost  none  may  pass: 
They  are  elders  and  lead  the  line,  eye  and  eye— green-glowing  brass. 

(Iviin  IvCinovitch.) 

(4)  Eight  feet: 

The  long  trochaic  measure  of  La  Saisaiz  is  the  fit  instru- 
ment for  the  carrying  on  of  the  keen  questionings  on  life 
and  immortality. 

•'  Crowned  by  prose  and  verse;  and  wielding,  with  Wit's  bauble.  Learning's 

rod.    .     ." 
Well?    Why  he  at  least  believed  in  Soul,  was  very  sure  of  God. 

(b)  Lines  of  unequal  length, 
(1)    Two,  and  three  feet, 

Rhyme-scheme.  «  „ 

Of  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less, 
I  rule  and  possess. 
One  man,  for  some  cause  undefined, 
Waa  least  to  my  mind.    (Instans  Tyrannus.) 
After  is  similar. 


THE    STROPHE-FORMS. 


87 


(2)  Two  and  six  feet: 


f,  o     Love  Among  the  Ruins. 

Where  the  quiet  colored  end  of  evening  smilea, 

Miles  and  miles, 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half  asleep 
Tinkle  homward  thro'  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop. 

The  effect  of  the  short  line  is  to  inopart  a  dreamy  and 
pensive  tone  to  the  verse,  by  its  recurring  tinkle.  The 
verse  admirably  gives  the  spirit  of  the  poem.  This  poem 
shows  a  double  system  of  strophe  formation:  the  two-line 
strophe  formed  by  the  rhyme,  and  the  larger  group  of 
twelve  lines,  which  represents  the  stages  of  the  thought  and 
feeling. 


STROPHES   OF  THREE   LINES. 

(a)  Lines  of  equal  levgth. 

(1)  Four  feet: 

aba    Tlie  Statue  ami  the  Bust.     (TerzaRima.) 

There's  a  palace  in  Florence,  the  world  knows  well, 

And  a  statue  watches  it  from  the  square. 
And  this  story  of  both  do  our  townsmen  tell,  etc. 

(2)  Five  feet: 

a  a  a    Epilogue  to  'Dramatis  Per^ome,'  (Third  Speaker.) 

That  one  Face,  far  from  vanish,  rather  grows. 
Or  decomposes  but  to  rocomposo, 
Becomes  my  universe  that  feels  and  knows! 

This  is  a  closely-knit  strophe;  the  thrice- repeated  rhyme 
making  the  close  very  emphatic,  as  befits  the  utterance  of 
one  who  proclaims  the  final  truth. 

aba  Doctor  — .  The  terza  rima  of  Dante.  It  is  gro- 
tesquely used  in  this  poem,  and  is  as  wilful  in  form  as  is 
the  subject. 

.\  Rabbi  told  mo:  on  the  day  allowed 

Satan  for  carping  at  God's  rule,  he  came, 

Fresh  from  our  earth,  to  brave  the  angel  crowd 


38  BROWNINO'8    VERSE-FORM:    ITS    OROANIC    CHARACTER. 

With  this,  contrast  the  terza  rima  of  Jochanan  Hakkadosh. 

Hp  lay  a-dyinK,  scholars,  -  awe-struck,  dumb 

Throughout  the  night-watch,  -  roused  themselves  and  spoke 

One  to  the  other:    "  Ere  death's  touch  benumb 

His  active  sense,  —  while  yet  'neath  Reason's  yoke 
Obedient  toils  his  tongue,  —  befits  we  claim 
The  fruit  of  long  experience,  bid  this  oak 

(3)  Seven  feet: 

a  a  a    Lyric  to  '  Shah  Abbas.' 

You  groped  your  way  across  my  room  i'  the  drear  dark  dread  of  night; 
At  each  fresh  step  a  stumble  was;  but  once  your  lamp  alight, 
Eaay  and  plain  you  walked  again:  so  soon  all  wrong  grew  right! 

(4)  Eight  feet. 

a  a  a    Lyric  to  '  The  Family. ' 
Man  I  am  and  man  would  be.  Love—  merest  man  and  nothing  more. 
Bid  me  seem  uo  other!  Eagles  boast  of  pinions  —  let  them  soar! 
I  may  put  forth  angel's  plumage,  once  unmanned,  but  not  before. 

(b  Lines  of  unequal  length. 
(1)  Six  and  seven  feet : 

a  n^    Lyric  to  *T}ie  Melon- Seller.'' 
6  7  0 

Wish  no  word  unspoken,  want  no  look  away! 

What  it  words  were  but  mistake,  and  looks  —  too  sudden,  say! 

Be  unjust  for  once.  Love!  Bear  it  —  well  I  may! 


STROPHES  OF  FOUR  LINES. 

(o)  Lines  of  equal  length. 

(1)  Two  feet: 

a  b  a  b.     This  form  does  not  occur;    but  the  eight-line 
strophe  of  Pisgah- Sights  is  made  up  of  two  strophe*-  of  this 

form. 

Over  the  ball  of  it, 
Peering  and  prying. 
How  I  see  all  of  it. 
Life  there,  outlying! 


THE    STROPHr-PORMS. 


39 


(2)  Three  feet: 

a  b  a  b.     *Ben  Karshook^s  Wisdom.' 

"  Would  a  man  escape  the  rod?  " 

Rabbi  Ben  Karshook  saith, 
"  See  that  he  turn  to  God 

The  day  before  his  death." 

Similar  in  rhyme-scheme,  but  of  a  different  rhythm,  are 
Tfie  Twins  and  Youth  and  Art. 
abed.     Donald. 

"  Will  you  hear  my  story  also, 
—Huge  .sport,  brave  adventure  in  plenty?  " 

The  boys  were  a  band  from  Oxford, 
The  oldest  of  whom  was  twenty. 

(3)  Four  feet: 

a  b  a  b.     Memorabilia-    Made  up  of  two  four-foot  strophes 
of  two  lines  each. 

a   a  b  b.     The    Laboratory,     Two    couplets    of    trochaic- 
logaoedic  rhythm. 

Now  that  I,  tyinj,'  my  plass  mask  tightly. 
May  gaze  through  these  faint  smokes  curling  whitely, 
A.S  thou  plicHt  thy  trade  in  this  devil's  smithy— 
Which  is  the  poison  to  poison  her,  prithee? 

a  b  c  b.     May  and  Death.     The  internal    rhyme  in   the 
third  line  has  a  plaintive  effect. 

I  wish  that  when  you  die<l  last  May, 

Charles,  there  had  dietl  along  with  you 
Three  parts  of  spring's  delightful  things. 
Ay,  and,  for  me,  the  fourth  part  too. 

(4)  Five  feet: 

a  b  a  b    Pietor  Ignotui^.     The  regular  "  iambic  quatrain. " 
Fearn  and  Scriiplrs  is   in   trochaic  quatrains,    the   second 
and  fourth   lines  of    which   are    catalectic,  having  an  em- 
phatic close.     It  has  a  singularly  haunting  melody. 
r»ved  I  not  his  letters  full  of  beauty? 
Not  his  actions  famous  far  and  wide? 
Absent  he  would  know  1  owed  him  duty; 
Present  he  wouUl  find  mo  at  his  side. 

1  Not  iru-lw.le.l  in  tlu>  Html  Lori.ioii  .>,lilion  (,f  tli,.  c..ll,.ct.-<l  works.     It  is  inscrtfld  here, 
as'  thowiuK  a  new  form.    .Suclj  fi.rins  will  h,-  iii.irked  with  au  aHteri.sk. 


40  BEOWNINOS    verse-form:    ITS   OEOANIC    CHARACTER. 

(5)  Six  feet: 

a  a  b  b.  Solomon  and  Balkis  is  logaoedic,  and  Before  is 
an  example  of  the  trochaic.  Both  are  made  up  of  two  coup- 
lets,  examples  of  which  have  been  given  among  the  two- 
line  strophes. 

(6)  Seven  feet: 

a  a  a  a.     Martin  Relph  (First  Strophe). 
My  grandfather  says  he  remembers  he  saw,  when  a  youngster  long  ago, 
On  a  bright  May-day,  a  strange  old  man,  with  a  beard  as  white  as  snow, 
Stand  on  the  hill  outside  our  town  like  a  monument  of  woe, 
And,  striking  his  bare  bald  head  the  while,  sob  out  the  reason  — so! 

The  remainder  is  in  strophes,  a  a  b  b,  that  is,  two 
couplets  succeeding  each  other. 

(7)  Eight  feet: 

a  a  b  b.    This  strophe   is  made   up   of   two  eight-foot 
couplets,     e.  g.  Cristina. 
(b)  Lines  of  unequal  length. 

(1)  Two  and  three  feet: 

«  S  o  «      A  Woman's  Last  Word. 
o  ^  o  Z 

Let's  contend  no  more,  Love, 

Strive  nor  weep: 
Ail  be  as  before.  Love, 

—  Only  sleep! 

(2)  Two  and  four  feet: 

?  S  ^  o      Prospice.     A  finely  vigorous  strophe. 
4  2  4  <: 

F-^ar  death?— to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

Tho  mist  in  my  face. 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 
I  am  nearing  the  place.    .    .    . 

^  o  M      A  Pretty  Woman. 
A  2,  i  i 

That  fawn-skin-dappled  hair  of  hers, 

And  the  blue  eye 

Dear  and  dewy 
And  that  infantine  fresh  air  of  hers. 


THE    8TBOPHE-FORM8. 


41 


fore  is 
)  coup- 
e  two- 


rago, 

snow, 

lo! 

3,     two 


<3)  Three  and  four  feet: 

4  3  4  8      ^'^^  ^^^^  Mistress. 

AU'a  over,  then:  does  truth  sound  bitter 

As  one  at  first  believes? 
Hark,  'tis  the  sparrow's  good-night  twitter 

About  your  cottage  eaves  I 

With  this,   contrast  the  vigor   of   the    iambic -logaoedic 
movement  of  Muckle- Mouthed  Meg. 

Frowned  the  Laird  on  the  Lord:     "So,  red-handed  I  catch  thee? 

Death-doomed  by  our  Law  of  the  Border! 
We've  a  gallows  outside  anda  chiel  to  dispatch  thee: 
Who  trespasses  —  hangs:  all's  in  order." 


ht-foot 


STROPHES  OF  FIVE  LINES. 


(a)  Lines  of  equal  length. 
(1)  Three  feet, 
a  b  a  b  a      Reverie. 


I  know  there  shall  dawn  a  day 
—la  it  here  on  homely  earth? 

Is  it  yonder,  worlds  away, 
Where  the  strange  and  new  have  birth, 

That  Power  comes  full  in  play? 


a  b  b  a  a 


Mesmerism. 
All  I  believed  is  true! 

I  am  able  yet 
All  I  want,  to  get 
By  a  method  as  strange  as  new. 
Dare  I  trust  the  same  to  you? 
So  Bad  Dreams,  and  Epilogue  to  'Dramatis  Personce.' 

(2)  Four  feet: 

a  b  a  b  a      A  Serenade  at  the  Villa. 
Oh  how  dark  your  villa  was 

Windows  fast  and  obdurate! 
How  the  garden  grudged  me  grass 

Where  I  stood  —  the  iron  gate 
Ground  its  teeth  to  let  me  pass! 


42 


HROWNINO-S    verse-form:    its    ORGANIC    CHARACTER. 


a  b  a  b  b      Porphyrin  h  Lover. 

The  rain  sot  early  in  to-night, 

Tho  sullen  wind  was  soon  awake, 
It  tore  the  elm-tops  down  for  spite, 
And  did  its  worst  to  vex  the  lake: 
I  listened  with  heart  fit  to  break . 

As  contrasted  with  this,- the  compressed  iambic    meas- 
ure-the    trochaic-logaoedic   measure   of    the    Prologue  to 
'Parleyivrjs:  though  of  the  same  rhyme-scheme  and  number 
of  feet,  gives  an  entirely  different  movement. 
Flame  at  the  f(X)t-fall,  Parnassus!    ApoUo, 

Breaking  ablaze  on  thy  'npmost  peak, 
Burns  thence,  down  to  the  depths- dread  hollow- 
Haunt  of  the  Dire  Ones.     Haste!    They  wreak 
Wrath  on  Admetus  whose  respite  I  seek. 

a  b  a  a  b      This  form  occurs  in  the   Lyric  to  M  Pillar  at 

Sebzevar.'  ,   ,      ^.., 

a  a  b  b  a    This  form  is  made   up  of  two  couplets,  with 
the  addition  of  a  line  repeating  the  first  rhyme,  which  binds 
the  strophe  together.     Useu  in  Tray. 
a  b  c  c  a    Dis  Aliter  Visum. 

Stop,  let  me  have  the  truth  of  that! 

Is  that  all  true?    I  say  the  day 
Ten  years  ago  v  hen  both  of  us 

Met  on  a  morning,  friends  — as  ihus^ 
We  meet  this  evening,  friends  or  what? 

So  James  Lee's  Wife,  ix. 
(b)  Lines  of  unequal  length. 
(1)  Three  and  four  feet, 
a  b  a  b  a    3^^,^^^  ^^j^y^.s  0/   Saxe-Gotha.     Stanza  22  ,^ives 

the  efftcttf  this  form.     The  effect  of  the  last  line  is  .ery 
suitable  to  the  subject. 

Is  it  your  moral  of  life? 

Sufh  a  web,  simple  and  subtle, 
Weave  we  on  earth  here  in  imiKJtent  strife, 
Backward  and  forward  each  throwing  his  shuttle, 

Death  ending  all  with  a  knife? 


THE    STROPHE- F0BM8. 


43 


o      rx     Q      y%     Q 

4  4  4  4  3    ^y  ^^^  Fireside.     A   very  beautiful  strophe,  to 

which  the  iambiclogaoedic  movement  contributes  much,  by 
combining  the  lightsome  anapaest  and  the  more  quietly 
moving  iamb  —  a  fit  instrument  for  the  expression  of  the 
chastened  joy  of  "the  love  of  wedded  souls."  The  short 
line  at  the  end  gives  compactness  to  the  form,  which  makes 
it  exquisitely  fitted  for  the  pictures  in  the  poem. 

A  turn  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things; 
The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim; 

From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs. 
The  thread  of  water  single  and  slim, 

Through  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings! 

Two  in  the  Campagna  has  the  same  rhyme-scheme,  but  the 
iambic  lines  give  an  entirely  different  toning  to  the  whole. 
So  Gold  Hair.     With  both,  contrast  Popularity.     . 

4  3  4  4  3  '^^^^^  -^^^'^  W^*/«.  iv.  The  emphasiising  power 
of  rhyme  is  shown  in  the  fourth  line,  which  repeats  the 
rhyme  for  the  third  time ;  and  in  this  line  the  most  emphatic 
declaration  is  made.  The  next  line  takes  up  the  less  em- 
phasized rhyme,  and  carries  the  strophe  forward  to  a  gentle 
close. 

I  will  be  quiet  and  talk  with  you, 

And  reason  why  you  are  wrong. 
You  wanted  my  love  —  is  that  much  true? 

And  so  I  did  love,  so  I  do: 
What  has  come  of  it  all  along? 

(2)  Three,  four  and  five  feet. 

5  5  5  4  ^  — James  Lee' 8  Wife,  vi.  The  gradual  shorten- 
ing in  the  last  two  lines  forms  a  beautiful  climax,  the  fitness 
of  which  is  seen  in  the  example. 

Only  for  man,  how  bitter  not  to  grave 

On  his  soul's  hand's  palms  one  fair,  good  wise  thing 

Just  as  he  grasped  it!    For  himself,  death's  wave; 
While  time  first  washes  —  ah  the  stinp!— 
O'er  all  he'd  sink  to  save. 


44  imowNiNu'R  vkksk-kok.m:   its  or(iani«;  ciiaractek. 

(;i)  TlinM>  iiTul  fivo  f<'et. 

a  a  !i  J)  I)    ,,,,.,,,     ,„    'dhn-fK'H.'     Tlio     \inoxpnctod     short 

r.  T)  f)  T)  ;{   ''•" 
lin(>  friv.'s  a  sudd.'ii  and    jocose  ending,  suitable  to  the  de- 
termination to  "make  verse.  ' 


STFIOPHES   OK   SIX    T<INES. 

(a)   /.nu'.s'  i)f  vqitnl  h  tuffh. 

(1)  Four  feet. 

a  a  h  b  c  c      Three    couplets.     S<W(,    in   '  I'ipp.i   PasHCs 
(Iambic);   Thv  Uidv  fnm  dhvnt  /,. /(/.r  (Anapaestic);  Mnrvhing 

AUmq  (Trorh  log).  ^ 

a  b  a  b  e  c     Nnfimwlity    i»    Drinhs  (Strophes   1    and   ^). 

A  quatrain  and  a  co\iplet. 

abac  b  a       The  Worst  of  11. 

\Vo\il.l  it  woro  1  hiid  »><"<mi  fulHo,  not  you! 

I  tliiit  iim  notliitiK,  not  you  Umt  jvro  all; 
I  I'.ovtT  tlio  woFHi'  for  !i  touch  or  two 

On  my  hixm-UUhI  hiilo;  net  you  th.«  prido 
Of  tho  (lay,  my  Hwan,  that  a  flock's  first  fall 

On  ht>r  wondor  of  white  mviHt  u^Hwan,  undo! 

Note  the  animating  touch  of  tlie  internal  rhyme  in  the 
fourth  line;  and  note  also  the  perfection  of  tho  periodic 
structure   in  the  beautiful  repetition  of  the  first  rhyme  in 

the  final  line. 

a  b  c  c  b  a  Meeting  ut  Niohf,  and  In  a  Oondola,  (She 
sjmiks,  2).  The  arrangement  of  the  rhymes  gives  greater 
intensity  to  the  middle  of  the  strophe,  with  a  more  flowing 
close. 

(2)  Five  feet. 

a  b  b  a  a  b  (Viihie  Ihland  to  the  Dark  Tower  Came.  The 
rhymeempha.sis  is  distributed  pretty  evenly  through  the 
strophe,  with  a  lightening  at  tho  end.  The  repetition  of 
the  two  rhymes  unites  the  strophes  closely,  and  at  tho  same 
time  gives  the  reader  a  haunting  sense  of  the  dread  mys- 
teries which  tho  Childe  saw  on  his  wonderful  journey. 


THE    HTROI'UE-rORUS. 


45 


BrttfT  thiH  iirnHcnt  than  fi  pant  liko  that; 

Uack  thorcforo  to  my  darkoninK  path  againl 
No  Hoiirul,  no  HJKht  an  far  an  pye  coiiid  Htrain. 

Will  thn  ni^ht  Hond  a  howlnt  or  a  hat? 

I  askf'd:  whon  somethinj^  (jn  thodiHrnal  flat 

("arne  to  armst  my  thcju^^htH  and  change  their  train. 

a  b  c  a  b  c  JameH  Lee's  Wife,  vii.  This  strophe  is  the 
concluding  part  of  the  Italian  sonnet-form. 

a  a  b  c  c  b  Any  Wife  to  Any  lIuHband.  The  b-rhyme  fuses 
the  group  into  one. 

(3)  Six  feet. 

a  b  c  a  b  c  MiMyknh,  Two  strophes  of  three  lines, 
united  in  a  more  complex  unity. 

(4)  Eight  feet. 

a  a  b  b  c  c      Mertonn's  Song  in  'A  Blot  in  the  'Scutcheon.' 
The  combination  of  three  long,  flowing  couplets  makes  a 
fine  strophe. 

(6)  Lines  of  uner/ual  length. 
(1)  Two,    hree  and  four  feet. 


b  a 

2  2 


James  Lee's  Wife,  v. 


3  c 
i  3 

I  leaned  on  the  turf, 

I  looked  at  a  rock 

Left  dry  hy  the  surf; 

For  the  turf,  to  call  it  gnwH  were  to  meek: 

Dead  to  the  nxjts,  ho  deep  wa.H  done 

The  work  of  the  Hummer  sun. 

The  abrupt  and  jagged  movement  of  this  strophe  is  due 
to  the  fact  that  the  Hues  corresponding  in  rhyme  do  not 
correspond  in  length.  Thus,  line  4  is  double  the  length  of 
line  2,  and  line  5  has  one  foot  more  than  line  6.  The  char- 
acter of  many  strophe-forms  arises  out  of  departures  from 
the  rule  that  only  similar  lines  should  rhyme.  It  is  seldom, 
however,  that  two  so  striking  departures  are  made  in  one  of 
six  short  verses.  Here  they  are  justified,  as  an  expression 
of  the  despair  of  the  woman  from  whose  life  the  glory  of 
love  has  fiown. 


^^Mr-^M^fffT'*-"^^*^^^" 


4U 


HROWNINOS    verse-form:    ITS   ORGANIC    CHARACTEB. 

(•2)  Three  and  four  feet: 

a  a  b  b  c  c      ^,iam,  LUith  and  Eve. 
3  3    4  4  4  3 

a  b  a  b  c  c       jjv,/,./,? 

3  3  3  4  4  4 

aaaabb      ^^^  Gondola  {Stilf  He  Muses). 

4  4  4  4  4  3 

a  b  c  a  b  c      p^^^f^  ^^n^  Angela,  Venice. 
4  4  4  4  4  3 

a  b  a  b  c  c      Epilogue  to  '  Tfie  Two  Poets  of  Croisic' 
The\orlgoing  examples  represent  almost  all  combina- 
Uons  of  the  three  and  four  foot  lines. 

(3)  Three,  five  and  six  feet: 

a  a  b  c  c  b      ^^j^j,^  ^^  Ezra.    A  peculiarly  fit  strophe  to 

en'shrileMe  musings  of  the  aged  Teacher.  The  body  of 
the  strophe  contains  the  arguments  of  the  Rabbi,  and  the 
long  Alexandrine  gives  the  conclusions,  with  a  fine  effect. 

(4)  Six  and  seven  feet: 

a  b  c  a  b  c       Tyric  to  '  Two    Camels.'    Two  six-foot  trip- 

A  A  A  A    (\    7         -*-'«/' 

lets    with  a  seven-foot  line  substituted  in  the  last.     This 
calls  the  attention  to  the  unity  of  the  strophe. 

STROPHES  OF  SEVEN  LINES. 

(a)  Lines  of  equal  length. 

(1)  Two  feet:  •  •  „j 

a  b  a  b  c  b  c  James  Lees  Wife,  i.  Three  couplets  joined 
by  the  fifth  line,  which  introduces  the  third  rhyme  The 
fitness  of  these  short  spasmodic  lines,  with  the  dead  stop 
at  the  close,  to  express  the  woman's  rumb  despair,  must 
be  felt  by  all  who  have  any  feeling  for  poetic  form. 


THE    8TROPHK-KORM8. 


47 


abina- 


phe  to 

ody  of 

ad  the 

effect. 


at  trip- 
.     This 


)S  joined 
le.  The 
jad  stop 

ii,  must 


Ah,  Love,  hut  a  day 

And  the  world  hoH changed! 
The  Hun's  away. 

And  the  bird  estranged; 
The  wind  has  dropp<>d, 

And  the  sky's  deranged; 
Summer  has  stopped. 

(2)  Three  feet: 
aabbaaa     A  Lover's  Quarrel. 

(3)  Four  feet: 

a  b  a  b  c  c  c    Arcades  Ambo. 
abccddd     In  Three  Days. 

(4)  Five  feet: 

a  b  a  b  a  b  b  Poem  at  the  end  of  'Daniel  BartolV 
a  o  a  b  c  c  a  The  duan/ian  Angel.  This,  as  do  the 
foregoing  six  and  seven-line  strophes,  shows  with  what 
skill  the  combinations  of  couplets,  triplets,  quatrains,  and 
such  lesser  units,  are  fused  into  the  larger  organism.  This 
strophe,  made  up  of  a  quatrain,  a  couplet,  and  a  line  re- 
peating the  rhyme  of  the  first  is  a  triumphant  example  of 
a  complex  stanza  having  a  true  poetic  unity. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repaired! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  onco  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O  woild.  as  God  has  made  it !     All  is  beauty: 
And  knowing  this  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 
Wha'.  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared? 

(b)  Lines  of  unequal  length. 
(1)    Two  and  four  feet : 

a  b  a  b  c  0  a        , 

4  2  4  2  4  4  4       ^ames  Lee's  Wife,  iii. 

The   long    lines    are    anapaestic,    and    the    short   lines 
trochaic;  which  gives  the  strophe  a  peculiar  rhythm. 
The  swallow  has  set  her  six  young  on  the  rail, 

And  looks  seaward: 
The  water's  in  stripes  like  a  snake,  olive-pale 


4H  IIROWNINMH    VKRHE-FORM  :    ITS    OROANM"    CHARACTER. 

To  fh(>  li'fwanl.    - 
On  thr  wfiithcr  Hi«lo,  liluck,  Hixtttt'd  whito  with  tho  wind. 

"  (JochI  fnrtiin<^  (l<>|)iirlH,  and  diHa.nter'H  Ix-hind,"  — 
Hark,  tlio  wind  with  itH  wants  and  itH  infinite  wail ! 


ababccd         .  ,,      ,   ^  ^;  „; 


(2)  Two.  three  and  four  feet: 

o  V  o  ^J  ";  ^  ^       /''  «  (^^>ndohi. 
2  4    3  4  4  4  4 

(3)  Three  and  four  feet: 

Q  Q   a  u   a  ?  d        Mixi'imvvptions.       The    nature    of    this 
strophe  will  be  seen  from  the  rhyme- scheme. 

(4)  Four  and  live  feet: 

^  ?  ^  r   r  ^  ^        /^i/''«'  <<^  '  ^1  Bean-Stripe  ' 
5555554 


STROPHES   OP  EIGHT   LINES. 

(a)  Lines  of  equal  length. 

(1)  Two  feet : 
ababcdcd    Pisgah- Sights. 

(2)  Four  feet: 

ababcdcd  Many  poems  have  this  form :  Soliloquy 
of  the  Spanish  Cloister  (Troch.),  Evelyn  Hope  (Trochlog),  Old 
Pictures  in  Florence  (Iamb-log),  Filippo  Baldinucci  (Iamb)  are 
examples. 

abbbaecc     Gristina  and  Mondaleschi. 

ababbccc    Song  in  '  Paracelsus, '  ( "  Beap  cassia,  etc. ") 

(3)  Five  feet: 

abababcc     The  l\vo  Poets  of  Croisic. 


TIIK    STROPHI-FORMB. 


49 


(4)  Six  feet: 

ababcdcd  Abt  Vogler.  The  union  of  the  two  four- 
line  strophes  is  so  complete  as  to  produce  the  perfect  and 
majestic  organ-tones  of  this  poem.  The  Epilogue  to  •  fyine* 
is  of  the  same  form,  but  is  entirely  different  in  rhythm. 

abcddcab    Pfieklippides. 


(b)  /Anes  of  nneqnal  length 

(1)  Two  and  four  feet: 

abcddabc 
22244  444 

abaccddb 

4L422442 


Love  in  A  Life. 
James  Lee's  Wife,  ii. 


(2)  Two,  three  and  four  feet: 

aaabbbcc,     ,„ 

2  2  4  2  2  4  4  3^^*^*  (Gondola  {He  Sings,  S)   Two   triplets 


and  one  couplet. 

abca  dbcd 
3242  3242 

b- rhyme. 


In 


A  Year.     Two  groups,    united   by  the 


(3)  Three  and  four  feet: 

ababcdcd    ,    ., 

434  3  4343   ^'^^'"^^^  of  tJie  French  Camp. 

ftb  ccc  b  Ra* 

344444  43  ^P^^^gue  to  '  Pacchiarotto  ' 

abbacddc„         ,  ^.,. 
44444443  ^'^^P^(^^<^bility. 


(4)  Six,  seven  and  eight  feet: 

abacdbdcn,.        ^  .. 
6867G867  ^^^^^^  ^^  Abano. 


50  BBOWN.NO  8    VER8E-F0RM:    IT^  ORUAN.C    CUARArTER. 

STROPHES  OF    NINE   LINES. 

(a)  Lines  of  ((inal  Wno^f^- 
(1)  Four  feet: 
abab   cdcd   d     Apvarent  Failure. 

{b)  Lines  of  iineip(a.  length. 
(1)  Two,  three,  four,  five  and  six  feet: 

ababacdcd    .  f>„„„  -    coive   her    but     the    least    ex- 
525563443     '  ^^        ^ 

cuse ') 

(2)  Three  and  four  feet: 

abccbadda  j^^f^ral  Magic. 
33444  4443 

STROPHES  OF  TEN    LINES. 

Only  one  poem,  Mary  Wollstonecraft  and  Fuseli,  is  written 

.    ababccddee 
in  this  strophe.    The  scheme  is  3444  44  4443' 

STROPHES  OF   ELEVEN   LINL..... 

(a)  Lines  of  equal  length. 

Four  feet:    a  a  b  b  c  d  d  e  e  e  c    The  Last  Bide  Together. 

(b)  Lines  of  unequal  length.  abcddabc 
Two  and  four  feet:      Another  Way  of  Love  2222    2222 

e  e  e 
4  4  4' 

STROPHES  OF  TWELVE  LINES. 

(o)  Lines  of  equal  length. 

Four  feet:    abab   ccdd  efef    Bad  Dreams  IIL 
a  b  a  b   c  d   e  f  e  f   c  d     Too  Late. 

(b)  Lines  of  unequal  length. 

,    .     ,     ^     aabbccddeeff     t  ..^  Amona 
(1)  Two  and  six  feet :   62626262626  2     ^^^^  ^^^^^ 


THE    8TBOPHE-FOBM8. 


ftl 


the  Ruina.  This  poem  has  been  noticed  in  the  two-linr 
strophes,  as  these  large  groups  are  logical,  rather  than 
constructive. 

,2,  Three  and   four    feet:    l\\\ltllli\i    "'-^ 
Music.     Made  up  of  three  four-line  strophes,  the  third  line 
of  which  is  longer  than  the  others  by  one  foot.     It  has  a 
veiy  beautiful  cadence. 


STROPHES  OF  FOURTEEN  LINES. 

Five  feet:     abba  abba  cd  cd  cd     "  Moses  the  Meek." 
is  a  sonnet-form  of  an  approved  Italian  type. 


This 


STROPHES   OF   SIXTEEN   LINES. 

One  example  only,  with  lines  of  four  feet. 

ababcdedfghgklml  The  Lost  Leader.  Despite  its 
length,  the  strophe  is  an  organic  unity.  The  trochaic- 
logaoedic  movement  is  very  fine. 

STROPES   OF  TWENTY   LINES. 

ababcdcdefefghghklkl.  This  form  occurs 
in  Bifurcation.  The  concluding  couplet  of  the  poem  has  no 
connection  with  the  strophes. 


STROPHES   OF  TWENTY-TWO   LINES. 

(1)  One  and  four  feet: 

a  b  c  d  e  e  d  f  g  g  f  h  k  h  k  1  m  1  m  a  b  c.    Life  in  a  Love. 
1114444444444444444111. 

(2)  Two,  three  and  four  feet: 

ababacdcddccef  fegghhhh 
33333  4444444422444444  2 


Never  the  Time  and 
the  Place. 


A  few  of  Brownings  strophes,  which  come  under  this  firs*, 
head  of  Regular  Strophes,  have  a  place  by  themselves. 
They  are  those  having  a  chorus,  or  refrain. 


52  imoWNIN..  S    verse-form:    its    organic    n.ARACTER. 

1  Bout  mul  Saddh.  Three  four-foot  anapaestic  lines, 
rhyming  a  a  a.  with  a  refrain  of  the  same  length  and  rhyme. 

2  Morrhimf  Alom,.  Four  trochaic-logaoedic  lines  of  four 
feet,  rhyming  a  a  b  b,  with  refrain  of  two  lines  similar  to 
those  of  the  strophe,  and  rhyming  c  c. 

3  OiveARous,.  Four  four-foot  iamb-log.  lines,  rhyming 
a  b  a  b  The  refrain  is  three  similar  lines,  rhyming  c  c  c, 
and  a  fourth  line  of  one  foot,  introducing  the  new  rhyme  d. 
The  poem  opens  with  the  refrain. 

4  Rosn>i.  Five  four  foot  lines,  rhyming  a  a  b  a  b,  with 
one  refrain  (•  Clara.  Clara  !' >  after  the  first  line,  and  a 
second  { "  Rosny,  Rosny  !  '  )  after  the  tifth. 

(5)  In  a  Oondola,  (He  Sinr/s,  :?.)  Five  four-foot  lines, 
rhyming  a  b  a  b  c,  to  which  the  refrain  of  two  feet  is  added, 
carrying  on  the  rhyme  c. 


II.     IRREGULAR  FORMS. 

Thus  far  only  those  strophes  have  been  dealt  with  which 
are  members  of  a  uniform  series.     The  second   class   of 
strophes  is  made  up  of  those  forms  which  are  individual 
in  their  structure,   while  they  perform  the  functions  of 
strophes.    For  the  most  part  these  are  of  a  complex  struc- 
ture and  cannot  be  described  by  a  simple  formula,  like  the 
regular  strophes.    They  may  be  described  as  "  free  mus- 
ical paragraphs.  ■  taking  on  forms  in  accordance  with  the 
dictates  of  the  thought  and  feeling  which  dominate  them 
and  give  them  vitality.    Browning  makes  a  free  use  of 
this  principle  of  strophe  formation,  and  some  of  his  most 
admired  poetry  is  in  this  form. 

Lines  of  four  feet:  This  is  shown  well  in  the  Song 
which  Aprile  sings  in  raraielsus:  and  a  triumphant  exam- 
ple is  found  in  the  same  poeni  -  Paracelsus'  song  of  the 
men  who  proudly  clung  to  their  first  fault  and  withered 
in  their  pride.  '     The  opening  has  a  splendid  vigor: 


THE    STaOPHE-FORMS.  63 

Over  the  Hecis  our  galleys  went, 
With  cleaving  prows  in  order  brave 
To  a  speeding  wind  and  a  bounding  wave. 
A  gallant  armament; 

and  the  verse  arranges  itself  into  all  varieties  of  groups, 
to  express  the  changing  moods  of  the  mistaken  sailors. 
Their  despair  at  the  last  is  mirrored  in  the  monosyllables: 

Yet  we  called  out  —  '  Depart! 

Our  yifts  once  given  must  here  abide. 

Our  work  is  done;  we  have  no  heart 

To  mar  our  work," —  we  cried. 

Christmas  Eve  and  Easter  Day  are  chiefly  in  couplets;  but 
the  verse  is  ever  transforming  itself  into  other  forms.  The 
infinite  variety  which  this  verse  may  assume  is  seen  in 
Waring,  James  Lee's  Wife,  viii,  A  Lik:e7iess,  Paccfdarotto,  De 
Gi/stilnis,  the  last  strophe  of  In  Three  Days,  and  The  Flight 
of  the  Diirhess.  Altliough  all  these  are  written  in  four-foot 
lines,  they  differ  from  each  other  most  widely.  On  the  one 
hand  wo  have  the  grotesque  verse  of  Porehiaruftn,  and  on  the 
other  the  faultless  music  of  the  Gipsy's  incantation  in  The 
Flight  of  thv  Ihirhess.  In  the  use  of  this  four-foot  line 
alone.  Browning  shows  the  greate.st  metrical  power.  Only 
genius  could  have  produced  such  varied  notes  from  so 
simple  an  instrument. 

The  Prologue  to  I'ippa  Passes  is  a  good  example,  on  a 
large  scale,  of  the  possibilities  of  the  irregular  strophe- 
form.  The  first  twelve  lines  describe  the  dawning  of  day.  Be- 
ginning with  a  catalectic  trochaic  line  (Day),  like  the  single 
first  ray  of  the  sunrise,  the  strophe  swells  into  a  magnifi- 
cent  music,  until,  like  the  sun,  it  "Flickered  in  bounds, 
grew  gold,  and  overflowed  the  world.  The  rest  of  the 
prologue  alternates  between  a  short,  tripping  measure,  and 
a  long,  flowing  five- foot  measure,  in  correspondence  with 
the  wilful  fits  of  gaiety  and  melancholy  of  the  little,  prat- 
tling silk  winding  girl.  Towards  the  end,  the  song,  "All 
service  ranks  the  same  with  God",  comes  in  with  a  lieauti- 


54 


IIROWMNO   S    VEK8E   KOUM:    ITS    OKUANIC    CHARACTER. 


ful  and  solerani//mp  effect.  The  Epilogue  is  the  innocent 
prattle  of  th«?  child  who  is  unconscious  of  the  great  human 
tragedy  which  has  shadowed  her  one  holiday. 

In  A  (fovihln  is  partly  made  up  of  regular  strophes, 
which  have  been  noted  in  the  proper  place;  but  the  re- 
mainder of  the  poem  is  made  up  of  the  free  strophe.     The 

opening  is  pure  music: 

I  send  my  heart  up  to  thpp,  all  my  heart 

In  this  my  HinRinK- 
For  the  Htars  h«»lp  mo,  and  tho  sea  boarH  part; 

The  very  night  is  clinKinfj 
Closer  to  Venice'  streets  to  leave  one  space 

Above  me,  whence  thy  faee 
May  liKht  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its  dwellinKplace. 

The  ending  of  the  poem  is  fine.  and.  like  this  strophe,  ends 
with  an  alexandrine. 

The  Pied  Piper  of  Hamelin   and  Uerve  liiel    are   chiefly    in 
four- foot  lines,  but  other  lines  are  introduced.   Home  Tfmvghts 
from  Abroad  is  in  two  strophes  of  individual  structure.  The 
first  shows  the  finest  poetic  sense.     It  opens  with  a  beauti- 
ful lyric  burst:  .    .    „    ,     , 

Oh.  to  be  in  LnKliind. 

The  last  line  of  the  strophe  ("In  England  -  now !  ')  is  the 
wish  which  arises  as  the  poet's  mind  dwells  on  the  picture 
of  the  chaffinch  on  the  swaying  orchard  bough,  and  sug- 
gests the  scene  in  the  most  subtly  artistic  manner. 

Five  feet: 

Parleyings  With  Certain  People  is  a  series  of  poems  written 
in  the  five- foot  measure;  and  there  is  a  very  great  variety 
in  the  grouping  of  the  lines.  The  couplet  and  the  quatrain 
are  the  prevailing  forms,  but  these  are  continually  broken 
in  upon  by  other  arrangements.  Many  of  these  strophes 
are  very  magnificent;  and.  as  examples,  sections  viii  to  xii 
of  Gerard  de  Lairesse  may  be  mentioned.  They  describe  the 
course  of  a  day,  and  the  character  of  the  verse  changes 
as  the  day  changes -the  laugh  of  morning,  the  sun-smitten 
noon,  and  the  stormy  darkness. 


THE    STROPHE- FOBMB. 


65 


liudel  to  the  Lady  of  Tripoli,  and  A  Face  are   similar   in 
form. 
Six  feet: 

Pheidippides {Strophe  8).  This  is  a  unique  form.  J  g  g  q  q  7  q- 

Ixion  is  in  couplets,  of  which  the  second  line  is  catalec- 
tic  at  the  caesura  and  at  the  end.  As  suggested  by  Mrs. 
Orr,  it  imitates  the  turning  of  the  wheel  on  which  Ixion 
is  bound.  It  is  a  reproduction  of  the  classical  elegiac 
couplet. 


III.     POEM  STROPHES. 

STROPHES  OF  FOUR   LINES. 

(1)  Four  feet:    abba    Morning. 

STROPHES  OF  SEVEN   LINES. 

Eight  feet:      a  a  a  a  a  a  a    Home  Tfumghts  from  the  Sea. 

STROPHES  OF  EIGHT  LINES. 

(1)  Two    feet:    abcdabcd     Pt/jpa,    {"The    year's   at 
the  Spring.  ") 

(2)  Five  feet:    aaabcccb     Deaf  and  Dumb. 

aabccbdd    Eurydice  to  Orpheus. 

STROPHES  OF  NINE  LINES. 

Two  feet:     ababcbcbb    Earth's  Immortalities  {Love.). 

STROPHES  OF   ELEVEN  LINES. 

Two  and  three  feet: 

abababcbbbc      Prologue  to  "  Dramatic  Idyls, "  (II.). 

STROPHES  OF  THIRTEEN  LINES. 

Two  and  four  feet: 

ababcdcddefef   ,,  ^„ 
2222222244444   *^^  *^«''- 


56 


BBOWNiNO'8    VERSE-FORM:    ITS    ORFANIC    CHARACTER. 


STKOPES  OF  FOURTEEN  LINES. 

(1)  Four  feet:     abbcac    dede    fggf    Noio. 

(2)  Five  feet:     No  sonnet  is  included  in  the  London  edi- 
tion. 

♦  Helen's  Toioer  follows  the  Italian  model  —abba  abba  cde 

*Wh\i  I  Am  a  Liberal  is  abba  abba  cd  cd  cd;  and  *  Sfiakes- 
peare  is  abba  abba  cd  cd  dc. 

•  Not  iu  tbe  collective  London  edition. 


STROPHES   OF   FIFTEEN  LINES. 

(a)  Lines  of  equal  length. 

(1)     Five  feet:     abba  abba  cdd  cdd  c      The  Founder  of  the 
Feast.     A  sonnet-form  with  an  additional  line. 

(b)  Lines  of  unequal  length. 

(1)  Two  and  four  feet: 

abbaccddeefgfgg     Wanting  is— What? 
22224444442222  2      """""^ 

STROPHES   OF   SIXTEEN   LINES. 

Three,  four  and  five  feet: 

aabbccbdddeeffgg   Pippa  Passes.  {Song,  ^Over- 
4444443444344553   head  the  tree-tops.') 


THE    BLANK    VEB3E. 


67 


CHAPTER  IV. 


THE   BLANK   VERSE. 

The  evolution  of  blank  verse  as  a  form  of  expression 
marks  the  highest  triimph  of  English  poetical  genius.  The 
history  of  the  evolution  of  this  complex  and  varying  form 
is  in  essence  the  history  of  English  poetry.  This  form  is 
seen  in  germ  in  the  Anglo-Saxon  verse;  and  in  Chaucer  the 
pentapody  appears  in  rhyming  coup  ets,  which  he  used  in 
his  stories  with  marvellous  power.  But  the  English  Renais- 
sance as  mirrored  in  the  drama,  demanded  a  yet  freer  and 
more  flexible  instrument  for  the  expression  of  its  manifold 
activities.  It  required  a  verse  which  was  suited  to  the 
dialogue  of  real  men  and  women,  a  verse  which  would  not 
interrupt  the  movement  of  thought  from  line  to  line  by  any 
recurring  rhyme  or  strophe,  but  which  would  give  all  the 
freedom  of  prose.  The  needed  form  was  evolved  in  due 
time,  and  the  result  was  the  blank  verse  of  Marlowe  and 
of  Shakespeare. 

In  a  later  age  Milton  perceived  the  great  superiority  of 
Shakespeare's  blank  verse,  for  his  heroic  p.jm.  over  the 
rhyming  couplet.  The  couplet,  he  says,  has  been  a  hin- 
drance to  the  poets  of  his  time,  and  used  by  force  of  cus- 
tom. "  much  to  their  own  vexation,  hindrance,  and  con- 
straint to  express  many  things  otherwise,  and  for  the  most 
part  worse,  than  else  they  would  have  expressed  them." 
And  he  openly  declared  his  purpose  to  recover  for  heroic 
poetry  its  "ancient  liberty"  by  rejecting  rhyme  and  mak- 
ing use  of  a  verse  "  which  consists  only  in  apt  numbers,  fit 
quantity  of  syllables,  and  the  sense  variously  drawn  out 
from  one  ver.se  into  another."  He  fulfilled  his  purpose  so 
nobly  that  his  verse  is  a  new  species,  distinct  from  the 
dramatic  blank  verse  in  its  studied  dignity  and  stateliness. 


58 


BRi.WNlN.i  8    VERSE- FORM.    ITS    OROANIC    CHARACTER. 


In  our  own  t.me  blank  verse  has  been  used  with  great 
power  -Tennyson  and  Arnold  continuing  the  Miltomc  tra- 
dition in  their  epic   poems,  and  Browning  continuing  the 
tradition  of  the  Elizabethan  dramatists.     In  any  comparison 
of  Brownings  and  Tennyson's  verse  this  fact  must  be  kept 
in  mind,  and  any  judgment  of  the  one  founded  on  standards 
derived  from  the  other  must  of  necessity   be  false.     The 
blank  verses  of  these  poets  are  distinct  in  kind,  and  writ^ 
ten  with  a  different  purpose.     Each  is  admirably  adapted 
to  its  purpose,  and  to  praise  or  blame  the  one  by  the  other 
is  a  mistaken  method.     We  cannot  wonder  that  the  verse 
in  which  tne  villain  Guido  proffers  his  defense  differs  so 
widely  from  the  verse  of  the   ■  Morte  d' Arthur. "    The  same 
kind  of  verse  could  not  express  the  action  in  the  court  of  jus- 
tice  with  all  its  conflicting  passions  and  lies,  and  that  in  the 
other  scene  in  the  chapel  nigh  the  field,  wherein  the  deeply- 
wounded  king  lay  dying,  while  "on  one  side  lay  the  ocean, 
and  on  one  lay  a  great  water,  and  the  moon  was  full.     The 
turbulence  of  the  one  and  the  peace  of  the  other  demand 
media  of  expression  entirely  different  in  kind. 

In  all  blank  verse  the  aim  of  the  poet  is  to  express,  not 
a  purely  lyric  emotion,  but  a  complete  fusion  of  thought 
and  emotion  in  such  a  way  as  to  present  both  with  equal 
truth.     What  is  needed  for  this  purpose  is   a  verse  which 
will  carry  on  the  thought  consecutively  with  all  the  free- 
dom of  prose,  and  which,  at  the  same  time,  will  retain  the 
harmony  and  rhythm  necessary  to  express  the  feeling  and 
emotion.    The  structure  of  blank  verse  is   very  free,  the 
only  feature  which  can  be  called  conventional  being  the 
pentapody  line.     There  is  no  set  form  of  strophes,  though 
this  form  of  verse  has  strophes,  as  all  verse  must,  in  its 
nature,  have.     But  the  supreme  excellence  of  blank  verse 
is  that  it  has  freed  itself  of  all  conventionality  of  strophe- 
'     form    its  form  being  determined  from  moment  to  moment, 
according  to  the  nature  of  the  thought  and  feeling.    The 
strophes  are  thus  wholly  organic,  and  do  not  approach  the 


THE    BLANK    VIR8E. 


69 


danger  of  becoming  merely  artificial  groups  of  lines  — a 
danger  from  which  the  set  strophe  is  frequently  rescued 
only  by  supreme  metrical  genius.  Each  phase  of  thought 
and  emotion  takes  its  own  form,  consisting  of  few  or  many 
lines  ascording  to  the  nature  of  the  impelling  thought  or 
emotion.  In  the  words  of  Milton,  the  "true  musical  de- 
light" of  poetry  is  secured  by  "the  sense  being  variously 
drawn   out  from   one    verse   into  another." 

In  the  third  chapter  we  have  said  that  the  strophe  is  to 
be  regarded  as  the  primary  unit  in  the  form  of  poetry;  as 
the   poet  does  not  regard  the  less  complex  units  ~»s  things 
to  be  considered  apart  from  the  organism  of  which  they  are 
members.  In  no  form  of  poetry  is  this  more  clearly  seen  than 
in  blank  verse;    and    it  will  be  found  that  the  best  blank 
verse  — that  is,  the  blank  verse  in  which  are  shown  pecu- 
liar excellences  as  the  form  for  the  expression  of  the  fusion 
of  thought  and  eLootion  —  is  not  that  in  which  the  separate 
lines   stand    out  from  the  body  of  the  poetry;    but  that  in 
which  the  beauty  and  significance  of  the  lesser  units  are 
not  felt  separately  and  by  themselves,  but  only  in  relation 
to  the  larger  wholes,  from  which  they  derive  their  meaning 
and  to  which  they  give  their  charm.     Therefore,  it  is  from 
the  point  of  view  of  the  strophe  that  we  must  approach  the 
blank  verse  of  any  poet,  if  we  are  to  see  its  characteristic 
excellences.     Some  poets  have,  it  is  true,  a  greater  facility 
than  others  of  condensing  their  thoughts  into  short  forms 
—  of  polishing  and  refining,   until,   as  in  Virgil,    "all  the 
charm  of  all  thj  muses  often  flowers  in  a  lonely  word." 
Among  our  English  poets  there  is  none  who  possesses  this 
power  in  a  higher  degree  than  the  one  who  made  this  crit- 
icism of  Virgil.     Tennyson  stands  supreme  in  the  power  of 
flashing  out  from  many  a  golden  phrase  all  the  chosen  coin 
of  fancy.     And,  in  his  blank  verse,  he  is  contained  within 
the  limits  of  a  line    more  than  any  other   master  of  this 
form.     The  history  of  Shakespeare's  growth  is  his  growing 
freedom  from  the  single  line  into  the  larger  space  of  the 


60 


BROWNIMO'S    VERSE-FORM:    ITS    OROAMIC    CHARACTER. 


paragraph  or  strophe,  His  best  later  poetry  can  be  justfied 
and  appreciated  only  by  regarding  all  in  relation  to  the 
groups  of  lines  in  which  the  single  lines  occur.  In  the 
periodic  structure  of  Milton's  verse  we  must  wait  until  we 
reach  the  final  strain  before  the  harmonies  are  resolved, 
and  each  member  of  the  whole  takes  its  proper  place  and 
function.  And,  in  Browning,  the  principle  of  strophe 
formation  must  never  be  lost  sight  of.  In  his  verse  as  in 
Milton's,  the  sense  is  "variously  drawn  out  from  verse  to 
verse;"  and  these  two  poets,  as  are  all  poets,  are  dis- 
tinguished from  each  other  by  the  differences  in  the  meth- 
od by  which  this  is  accomplished.  The  lines  in  Shakes- 
peare, Milton,  Tennyson  and  Browning,  which  have  fallen 
beneath  the  censure  of  the  critics  as  'barbarous'  and 
'formless'  can  be  appreciated  and  explained  only  by  being 
regarded,  not  in  isolation,  but  as  the  members  of  the  period 
or  strophe,  working  together  to  one  common  and  harmo- 
nious end. 

While  the  excellence  of  Browning's  blank  verse  has 
been  recognized  in  some  quarters,  the  dramatic  character, 
which  should  be  the  medium  of  expression  for  poems 
"  always  dramatic  in  principle, "  is  denied  him.  This  view 
of  his  poetry  is  maintained  with  great  ability  by  Prof. 
Walker.  "  In  a  sense, "  he  says,  "  it  may  be  said  that  a 
dramatist  need  not  have  a  style  of  his  own  at  all ;  but  if  he 
escapes  this  obligation  he  incurs  a  more  onerous  one,  he 
must  have  not  one  style,  but  twenty.  This  is  wh<3re 
Browning  fails.  He  has  a  style  of  his  own,  a  style  for 
good  or  evil  conspicuous  for  its  strongly  marked  traits; 
and  this  he  carries  with  him  through  all  his  dramas  and 
in  the  delineation  of  all  his  characters. " ' 

What  Prof,  Walker  goes  on  to  say  in  support  of  his 
thesis  hardly  detracts  from  the  dramatic  character  of 
Browning's  verse.  The  mark  of  Shakespeare  is  so  plainly 
imprinted  upon  his  verse  that  its  dramatic  character  —  the 
changes  it  undergoes  to  suit  itself  to  the  characters  —  is 

•  The  Greater  Victorian  Poeti,  p.  191. 


THl    BLANK    VERSE. 


61 


not  taken   into  the   slightest  account  in  determining  the 
chronology  of  the  plays  by  the  ordinary  verse  tests.     Over 
and  above  the  variations  of  the  verse  in  its  dramatic  char- 
acter, there  remains  intact  the  permanent  character  aris- 
ing out  of  the  personality  of  the  artist..   Every   author, 
even    the    most  dramatic,    has    his    style,    his    "  singing 
clothes,"  "fashioning  his  phrases  upon  his  own  individual- 
ity, and  speaking  as  if  he  were  making  a  language  thus, 
for  the  first  time,  under  those  *  purple  eyes '  of  the  muse, 
which  tinted  every  syllable  as  it  was  uttered,  with  a  sep- 
arate benediction.  ' '    Prof.   Walker  is  right  in  so  far  as  it 
is  true  thai  the  individual  style  is  more  persistently  pres- 
ent with  some  poets  than  with  others.     It  certainly  is  with 
Browning  more  than  with  Shakespeare.    But  this  fact  does 
not    by    any    means    render    invalid    the   contention    that 
Browning's  verse  is  the  most  dramatic   blank  verse  of  the 
century,  and  that  it  ranks  high  among   the  best  dramatic 
verse  in  the  language.    Take,  for  example,  aeon,  the  utter- 
ance of  a  learned  and  highly  cultured  Greek,  and  Caliban, 
in  which  the  half  beast  gives  his  ideas  of  God.    On  the  one 
hand  we  have  the  smoothly  flowing  verse,   with  its  beau- 
ties everywhere  like  the  isles  of  Greece,    "sprinkled  HI , 
on  lily  •  ;  and  on  the  other  we  have  the  verse  which  can- 
not flow.     Caliban's  speech  is  too  primitive  for  that,  and  he 
must   speak  in  monosyllabic  verse.     From  both  of  these 
the  verse  of  A  Death  in  the  Desert  differs  in  its  meditative 
ness  and  repose.     But,  to  take  our  examples  from  The  Ring 
and  the  Book,  which  is  Browning's  supreme  effort,    a  great 
and  organic  difference  is  to  be  seen  in  the  general  charac- 
ter and  atmosphere  of  the  several   books;   and   to  this  the 
verse,  by  its  dramatic  character,  is  in  no  slight  degree  a 
contributor.     Take,  for  example,  Half  Rome  and  The  Other 
Half  iZor/K,_  books  which  might  seem  to  call  for  little  dis 
tinct  characterization  because  of  the  unimportance  of  the 

^.  Mr«.  Brownin..  quoted  in  NicoU's  Literary  Anecdotes  of  i,e  yineUenlK  Century. 


02 


BROWMNU'S    VER8K-KOB.M:    ITS   OKGANIC   CHARACTER. 


speakers.  The  speaker  in  Half  Rome  is  a  married  man  who 
is  jealous  of  his  wife,  and  so  naturally  takes  sides  with 
Guido,  the  husband  and  murderer.  He  knows  women,  he 
says,  facts  are  facts,  the  wife  misbehaved,  and  Guido  did 
right  to  kill  such  a  one,  and  to  "  revenge  his  own  wrong 
like  a  gentleman."  In  the  verse  there  is  no  ornament  which 
is  incompatible  with  a  poetic  interpretation  of  the  low  views 
of  life  represented  by  him.  The  verse  of  The  Other  Half 
Eome,. in  which  a  chivalrous  bachelor  speaks,  is  far  difler- 
ant.  His  mind  does  not  dwell  on  the  so-called  "facts  of 
the  case.  He  has  had  a  vision  of  something  higher;  and 
his  eyes  are  raised  to 

Little  Pompilia,  with  the  patient  brow 
And  lamentable  smile  on  those  poor  lips, 
And,  under  the  white  hospital  array, 
A  fiower-like  body, 

and  he  sees  all  in  relation  to  her.  These,  the  opening  lines 
of  the  book,  give  its  whole  atmosphere;  and  it  is  dis- 
tinguished by  its  frequent  beautiful  imagery,  especially  of 
the  flowers.     The  verse  is  singularly  sweet. 

We  have  taken  these  two  books  as  examples  of  what 
might  be  done  in  differentiating  the  verse  of  the  several 
books.  Thus,  the  differences  between  the  verse  of  the  four 
chief  characters  — Guido,  Pompilia,  Caponsacchi  and  the 
Pope  —  are  easily  seen  at  least  in  their  most  general  char- 
acteristics. Nearly  every  one  would  also  see  differences  be- 
tween the  verses  of  the  Pope  and  of  the  Lawyers,  even  if 
no  distinction  were  discoverable  between  those  of  the 
Lawyers  themselves;  but  a  study  would  certainly  reveal 
differences.  It  is  not  proposed,  however,  to  go  over  the 
whole  ground  in  this  essay.  Though  these  differences, 
which  are  felt  as  impressions,  must  be  the  guide  when  any 
attempt  is  made  to  formulate  them,  we  shall  attempt  to 
study  the  verse  in  a  more  intensive  manner.  We  shall 
select  the  books  of  the  most  important  characters,  and  in 
which  characterization  is  more  clearly  called  for:    Guido's 


THE    B'.ANK    VCBHI. 


68 


first  and  second  monologues  (Books  V.  and  XL).  Pompifia, 
Capormurhi,  and  Tfic  Pope.  By  this  method  of  study  it  will 
be  ix)ssible  to  attain  greater  exactness  of  results  than  by 
one  requiring  a  more  general  examination.  On  the  other 
hand  it  may  be  said  that  the  characteristics  of  the  blank 
verse,  which  are  noted  in  this  chapter,  were  derived  from 
a  careful  study,  not  only  of  The  lUng  and  the  Book,  but  of 
the  whole  body  of  the  poet's  blank  verse.  The  passages 
particularly  examined  in  this  chapter  simply  i)resent  in 
definite  shape  the  general  character  of  the  verse  in  its 
manifold  forms.  So  far  as  the  results  go.  they  have  in 
every  case  confirmed  opinions  formed  from  the  more  gen- 
eral, and  what  some  would  perhaps  call  the  more  ajsthetic, 
method  of  criticism.' 

I.  Among  the  diverse  judgments  passed   on  Browning's 
blank  verse,  one  of  the  most  common  is  that  of  vi(/or:  and, 
indeed,  this  quality  of  vigorous  flow  is   the  most  striking 
of  all  the  characteristics  which  mark  it  as  peculiar  and  in- 
dividual.    This  quality    is   to    be    traced    to   the  fact  that 
Browning  has  cons'ructed  his  verse  consistently  in  periods, 
or  strophes.     These  strophes  are,   as  a  rule,  well  defined 
and  closely  fused  together  into  compact  wholes;  although 
they    may  vary    in  length  from   one  or  two  lines  to  over 
twenty.     As  in  all  careful  art.  these  differences  are  not  due 
to  any  caprice;  but  are  wholly  organic,    and  are  the  out- 
ward expression  of  the  conti'ivin;^^  spirit  within.     An  ex- 
amination shows   that  the   differences  in  length  of  these 
strophes  are  very  dramatic,  suiting  themselves  most  admir- 
ably to  the  nature  of  the  thought  and  emotion  of  the  character 
in  whose  mouth  the  verse  is  placed.     Thus  the  nature  of 
the  strophe  which  prevails  in  the  several   books  differs  as 
widely  as  the  characters.     Those  in  the  first  monologue  of 

Guido  average  seventeen  lines,  and  in  the  last,  ten  lines. 

* 

'  The  passaKfs  sflloctcil  for  more  particular  BZamiDatiuu  urp:  Hook  V,  Count  (iuido 
Franrpsrhxni.Mne^lSri-iVl.  Hook  VI,  (hiiteppr  Cniionsacchi,  lians  9:n-U9«;  Book  VII, 
Pomi>iliii,  lines  l;«M,i2- ;  »(M)k  X,   The   I'o/te,  linos   lOOS-liSfij;  Book  XI.  Guido,  liaes 


til 


IlRi'WMN*;   H    VKR8K-F()RM:     ITS    ORGANIC    CHARACTER. 


Caponsacchis  average   niueand-ahalf   lines,    Pompilia's, 
nine  lines,  and  the  Pope's  fifteen-and-a-half  lines. 

These  figures  show  that  the  Pope,  in  keeping  with  his 
character,  employs  strophes  which  are  longer  than  the 
average  length  of  any  oAier  character.  He  is  'the  great 
guardian  of  the  fold,'  '  simple,  sagacious,  mild  yet  resolute.' 
He  goes  over  the  whole  ';ase,  weighs  and  ponders,  and  iets 
flow  his  own  thoughts  forth'  before  delivering  the  final 
judgment.  The  substratum  of  Pompilia's  and  Caponsacchi's 
words,  on  the  other  band  is  'not  thought,'  but  a  sublime 
emotion.  Their  verse  is  therefore  more  intense,  with  its 
shorter  and  burning  periods.  Though  Pompilia's  strophes 
average  almost  as  long  as  Caponsacchi's,  his  often  run  to  a 
greater  length  than  any  of  hers.  'He  speaks,  rapidly, 
angrily,  speech  that  smites '  his  judges,  who  must  bear  in 
silence  the  *  blow  after  blow  '  which  he  strikes  in  his  short 
and  angry  sentences.  Pompilia's  speech  is  the  'low  sigh- 
ing of  a  soul  after  the  loud  ones; '  and  in  beautifully  equ- 
able verse  she  'endeavours  to  explain  her  life.'  The 
change  in  form  of  the  strophes  of  the  first  and  last 
speeches  of  Guido  is  very  significant.  In  the  first  he 
speaks  as  "Count  Guido,  '  to  his  social  equals,  before  the 
governor  and  his  judges,  and  surrounded  with  all  the  con- 
ventionalities which  a  proud  and  exclusive  society  could 
give.  We  can  scarcely  ever  see  through  the  veneer  down 
into  the  real  man  He  speaks,  'now  with  mock-mildness,' 
now  with  passion,  but  always  with  the  most  crafty  argu- 
ment and  wonderfully  skilful  dialectic.  But  in  the  second 
speech  he  speaks  a  condemned  man.  His  appeal  to  the 
Pope  has  been  vain,  and  there  is  no  more  hope.  He  is  in 
'  a  fetid  cell  lit  by  a  sole  lamp, '  and  here  the  Cardinal  and 
Abate  listen  as  they  'crouch  well  nigh  to  the  knees  in  dun- 
geon straw. '  There  is  no  need  now  of  crafty  words  and 
fine- spun  argument.  It  is  his  last  night,  and  those  men 
are  not  present  as  his  judges,  but  as  his  confessors  waiting 


THE    TiLANK    VERSE. 


65 


to  absolve  him.     All  the  shar.i  drops  away;  the  man  in  his 
real  self  stands  forth,  and  the  true  words  shine  at  last. 

II.  In  an  examination  of  blank  verse,  the  unity  which 
ranks  in  importance  next  to  the  larger  unity  of  the  strophe, 
if  it  has  not  even  a  greater  influence  on  its  character,  is 
the  verse,  or  line.  In  the  matter  of  the  construction  of  the 
line,  as  well  as  in  almost  every  other  part  of  versification. 
Browning  has  been  most  severely  criticised.  It  has  been 
said  that  his  verses  will  not  scan,  and  that  they  are  there- 
fore lawless  and  chaotic.  There  is  no  uniformity  in  his 
lines,  it  is  said,  and,  moreover,  they  are  in  many  cases  in" 
harmonious.  Now,  it  cannot  be  for  a  moment  maintained 
that  Browning  preserves  a  uniform  construction  in  his 
lines.  No  poet  other  than  a  merely  mechanical  one,  does. 
Not  that  any  poet  would  introduce  variety  into  his  verse 
for  mere  variety's  sake,  or  even  to  avoid  monotony;  but 
the  great  i)oet,  who  embodies  his  thought  in  the  true  sense, 
must  perforce  depart  from  the  regular  rhythm  of  the  line  to 
give  expression  to  the  diversity  of  his  thought  and  emotion. 
And  thus,  in  the  work  of  the  great  poets  these  departures 
are  not  lawless,  but  are  made  in  accordance  with  artistic 
reasons.  So  long  as  we  look  at  the  verso  of  the  great  poets 
from  the  outside,  as  it  were,  and  demand  a  merely  mechanical 
rhythm,  we  can  never  understand  their  finest  harmonies. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  one  of  the  chief  reasons  why  the 
yreat  masters  of  harmony  have  been  condemned  for  law. 
lessness  in  their  verse  is  that  those  who  presumed  to  judge 
looked  for  nothing  but  this  mechanical  construction.  They 
were  incapable  of  appreciating  any  more  complex  harmony. 

The  other  great  reason  for  the  condemnation  of  the 
poets  is  an  inadequate  system  of  prosody.  If  the  preface 
to  Christabel  did  not  lay  down  any  new  principles  of  versi- 
fication, it  at  least  contained  a  hint  to  which  the  prosodists 
would  have  done  well  to  give  heed.  Had  they  not  con- 
sistently ignored  the  i)rinciple  "  of  counting  the  accents, 
not  the  syllables",  the  science  of  prosody  would    not  have 


(16 


HROWMNO  S    VERSE-KORM:    ITS    ORQANIC    CHARACTER. 


been  placed  in  the  ridiculous  position  of  having  condemned 
in  turn  all  the  great  masters  of  English  verse.  But,  being 
founded  on  the  principle  of  counting  the  syllables  only, 
this  was  inevitable;  and  the  same  is  true  to  this  day.  The 
pre.sent  system  of  English  prosody  finds  itself  utterly  inad- 
equate to  account  for  the  facts  with  which  it  has  to  deal. 
Only  the  most  monotonously  mechanical  verse  conforms  to 
the  laws  which  it  lays  down. 

As  was  said  in  the  second  chapter,  accent  dominates  the 
verse  of  English  poetry,  and  therefore  it  follows  that  the 
accented  syllables  in  the  verse  are  the  most  important  of 
its  elements.  They  are  the  nuclei,  the  centres,  around 
which  the  unaccented  sy'lables  arrange  themselves.  As 
was  stated  in  chapter  two.  the  number  of  the  unaccented 
syllables,  their  number  and  order,  give  to  the  metres  their 
characteristics. 

Of  the  classes  of  metres  mentioned  in  chapter  two,  the 
Trochaic  is  mentioned  first,  as  being  made  up  of  trochees 
Since  English  verse  is  accentual,  ihe  characteristic  foot  is 
that  which  begira  with  an  accented  syllable  and  closes  with 
one,  or  two,  unaccented  ones  —  that  is,  a  Trochee,  or  Dactyl. 
That  the  trochee,  and  not  the  iamb,  is  the  primary  foot  in 
English  verse  is  shown  by  the  freedom  with  which  the  un- 
accented syllable  is  used  or  dropped  even  in  verse  of  iambic 
movement,  as  a  thing  rhich  is  not  necessary  to  tne  verse. 
Thus  Keats, 

Tiilcs  and  goUlon  historieH 
Of  heaven  and  its  luysterit's. 

Of  these  lines,  corresiwnding  in  rhyme  and  length,  the 
first  begins  with  an  accented  syllable,  while  the  other  takes 
the  anacrusis,  giving  to  il  an  unaccented  beginning  and 
an  iambic  movement.     So  Browning,  in  his  blank  verse, 

.\t  least  one  bUxssom  inaken  tue  proud  at  ove 
Born  'mid  the  briars  of  my  enclosure. 


THE    BLANK    VERSE. 


67 


The  unaccented  syllable  Is  present  or  absent  at  the  end  of 
lines  also.     Thus  Browning  in  Pauline, 

One  pond  of  water  gleams;  far  oflF  the  river 
Sweeps  like  the  sea,  barred  out  from  land  but  one 

It  may  also  be  placed  before  or  after  the  caesura. 
Browning, 

In  a  lone  garden  quarter:  ||  it  was  eve. 
The  second  of  the  year,  ||  anil  oh  so  cold! 

Whilo  this  free  retention  or  rejection  at  pleasure  of  the 
unaccented  syllables  shows  its  subordinate  character,  it 
does  net  by  any  means  detract  from  its  importance  in  the 
line.  Even  the  mere  dropping  of  it  at  the  end  of  the  line 
has  its  effect,  while  the  dropping  of  it  at  the  beginning  has 
the  marked  effect  of  giving  a  new  character  to  the  rhythm; 
and  if  the  regular  siK-cession  of  unaccented  and  accented 
syllables  is   maintained,  there  results  the   Iambic  rhythm. 

The  trochaic  metres  (and  the  allied  dactylic  and  trochaic- 
logaoedic  metie.s)  are  the  most  lyrical  of  all  the  metres,  as 
an  examination  of  any  collection  of  lyrics  will  show.  In 
Browning's  lyric  poems  there  is  a  greater  variety  of 
trochaic  metres  than  of  any  other  class.  Since  blank  verse 
is  the  farthest  possible  from  lyric  poetry,  having  as  its 
substance  the  fusion  of  thought  and  emotion;  the  trochaic 
metres,  that  is,  verses  made  up  entirely  of  trochees,  would 
be  unsuitable  media  of  expression.  Thus,  such  a  line  as 
Hated  wickedness  that  hinderetl  loving 

is  very  rare    in  blank    verse.     This    form   Joes   occur    in 
Shakespeare, 

Tear  for  tear,  and  loving  ki.ss  for  kiss. 

{Tit.  Auflrnn,   I'.,  .3,1.V5.) 

But  it  is  very  exceptional,  and  I  have  observed  no  case  of 
it  in  Browning. 

(I)  The  prcnailing  metre  of  blank  verse  is,  then,  the 
verse  which  has  the  anacrusis  — that  is,  which  begins  with 
an  unaccented  syllable,  thus  forming  the  Iambic  metre. 


(iU 


liK«>\VMN(J  B    VKRSE-FdRM  :    ITS    OKOANIC    CIIARACTKR. 


(2|  A  second  class  is  the  Trochaic-lofjaoedic  metres. 

(3)  A  third  class  is  the  lainbic-lofjaoedic  metres. 

The  expressive  ciiaracterof  the  different  classes  of  verse 
differs  very  widely.  The  iambic  is  the  most  smooth  and 
consecutive,  and  is  the  suitable  expression  of  calm  and  de- 
liberate thought,  or  of  thought  deepened  but  not  disturbed 
by  emotion  The  second  class,  opening  with  a  trochee, 
has  an  intensifying  effect  on  the  rhythm.  It  has  a 
swift  and  straightforward  movement  which  is  very  effect- 
ive in  groups  large  enough  to  allow  the  effect  of  the 
rhythm  to  be  felt.  Such  groups  are  not  uncommon,  and 
are  finely  expressive  of  animated  thought.     E.  g. 

"Uh  to  have  CapoiiHacchi  for  my  fjiiidc!" 
Ever  th«'  fare  ui)turnt'(i  to  mine,  the  hand 
Holding  my  hand  across  tho  world.     {/'onipiHa,  II.  1496-98.) 

The  third  flass  of  metres,  by  their  swifter  and  more 
agitated  movement,  are  the  natural  expression  of  agitated 
emotion.  Where  the  logaoedic  rythm  is  strongly  marked, 
the  great  number  of  unaccented  syllables  give  an  air  of 
recklessness  and  of  mockery,  such  as  is  given  by  Byron 
and  Browning  by  their  double  and  triple  rhymes. 

The  use  which  is  made  of  these  several  moires  in  the 
different  books  of  the  poem  shows  a  fine  sense  of  charac 
terization.  Pompilia  and  the  Pope  use  the  largest  percent- 
age of  the  iambic  line  —  70  and  03  per  c(!nt.  resjiectively, 
In  their  calm,  and,  in  a  sense.  disj)assionate,  view  of  the 
case,  they  are  calm  and  measured  in  their  verse.  Their 
use  of  the  Trochaic-logaoedic  verse  is  about  the  same  —  27 
per  cent.  Of  the  agitated  iambi<vlog.  verse  they  make  a 
very  slight  \ise  — f)nly  3  and  10  per  cent.,  respectively. 
The  'rapid,"  'angry'  speech  of  Caponsacchi.  the  speech 
which  terrifies  his  judges,  is  in  verse  of  another  character 
from  that  of  Pompilia,  or  of  the  Pope.  In  his,  the  per- 
centage of  iambic  lines  falls  to  r)(i,  and  the  trochaic-log.  to 
28,  while  the  agitated  iambic-log.  rises  to  21  per  cent. 
Guido,  in  his  first  defence,  has  a  percentage  of  52  of 
iambic  lines,  24   of  troch  log.,  and  24  of   the  iamb-log.     In 


THE    BLANK    VERSE. 


69 


his  second  speech  01  per  cent,  of  the  lines  are  iambic,  53 
per  cent,  trochlof?.,  and  only  (I  per  cent,  iamb-log.  This 
last  change  is  significant  in  a  high  degree.  In  the  first 
speech  he  uses  all  the  fine.s.se  of  mockery;  but,  when  he  ap- 
pears the  second  time,  he  is  no  longer  a  count  before  his 
equals.  He  is  a  condemned  man,  and  in  his  earnest  plea 
for  life  there  is  no  place  for  aught  but  earnest  words.  This 
change  is  clearly  indicated  by  the  almost  complete  disap- 
pearance of  the  lambiclogaoedic  metre,  and  the  propor- 
tionate predominance  of  the  iambic. 

HI.     Another  very  important  element   of  blank   verso  is 
tlic  ru.sani,  or  ra, sural  pans,:     It  divides  the  lines  into  two 
])aits,  and,  according  as  the  manner  of  division  varies,  the 
verse  takes  on  distinctive  characteristics.    The  caesura  may 
vary  in  two  ways:  (1)  in   its  hafitrr:  that  i.s,  it  may  come 
immediaU'ly    aft.T    an    a'.-c»-nted    .syllable  — the    masculine 
caesura,    or    after    an    unaccented    syllable-^ the  feminine 
caesura.     It  may  vary  ill),  in   its  p/.nr  in  the  line,  and   may 
follow   any   foot   except,    of  ,-our.se.    the    last.     Hrowning 
varies  the  caesura   in  botii  of  the.se  ways  to  a  considerable 
ext.mt:  although  his  ver.se  has  a  certain  stiffness  and  lack 
of  llexibility.  which  may  i;e  traced  for  the   most  part  to  a 
lack  of  variety   in  the  placing  of  the  caesural  pause.     But, 
while  this  is   true.   77m'  Hh,;,  and  the  Book  shows  great  and 
dramatic  differences  in  the   ver.se  of   the   different  charac 
ters.     Certain  p-u-ts  of  the  poem  show  an  especial  express- 
iveness of  movement  which  is  almost  entirely  the  result  of 
the  skilful  management  of  the  caesural   pause.     This  may 
best  be      own  by  an  example.     And  let  us  first  take  a  few 
ver.ses  from    Pope,  who   is   regular   in   his  caesura.     Tliis 
regularity  produces  a  closer  verse,  but  also  gives  a  corre- 
sprjnding  lack  of  variety  in  the  cadences. 

On  Ikt  wliilr  l.reiirtt  \\  a  .s[.arkliiitr  <t..s.s  she  wore, 
Which  .Jews  luiylit  kiss     aii-i  inliiiclH  atldre. 
ll.r  livfiy  l(H.ks  ;!  a  Hpri^htly  iiiiti.l  disclo.sf', 
(,^uick  a.s  her  eyes    and  a.s  urifi.xt'd  m  tho.se. 

{Ii(if,r  ,,/  thr  Lnrk,  V.    7-10.) 


1 


70 


JlRoWNINf.   S    VKRSK-KiRM:     ITS    fiROANIC    CHARACTKR. 


With  tlus  passa<re  fontrast  the  foUowinfr  lines,  in  which 
the  prfatesl  variety  is  shown  in  the  nature  and  place  of 
the  caesura. 

Uiit  throut,'li  the  hlacUncss  |  I  saw  Fionif  af;ain, 

And  wlnTi'  ;i  sulifjiry  villa  stixnl 

In  (i  l<»i!f  (,'iinlt'n-(|iiartor:     it  \\iin  eve, 

The  second  nf  the  year.  '  and  oh  so  cold! 

KvfT  and  anon     tli'Tf  flittf-rcd  throiitjh  thf  air 

A  snow  flakt',  j]  ami  a  scanty  couch  of  .snow 

{'rusted  *'ii' ^'rass-waik  ||  and  tin- ffarden mould. 

.Ml  u  as  i;ravf>,  silent,  sinister,  '  when,  ha! 

(iliniinerins^ly  i'  did  a  pack  of  werewolves  fiad 

The  snow,     those  flames  were  (iuido's  eyes  in  front, 

.\nd  ai.  five  found  and  footed  it.  |]  the  tra<l<. 

To  where  a  threshold  streak  |1  of  Wiirtuth  and  litjht 

Uetrayed  the  villa  door  il  with  life  inside. 

(  77/'    /i'iiii/  iiikI  Ihi   li,,(>k\  I,  i'm-CiV).) 

In  ttu'so  thirteen  linos  there  are  e.xamplos  of  the  feminine 
caesura  after  the  first,  second  and  third  feet,  and  of  the 
masculine  caesura  after  the  first,  second  and  fourth  ac- 
cents. Fiesides,  there  is  an  example  of  what  is  a  somewhat 
frequent  occurrence  in  Browninj?  -  a  lin<'  without  a  caesura. 
In  this  way  the  variety  of  cadences  is  carried  to  the  widest 
possible  limits. 

His  poetry,  on  the  whol'',  shows  a  preference  for  the 
feminine  caesura  after  the  sccoud  foot,  and  for  the  mas- 
culine caesura  after  the  second  accent.  This  gives  the  mn-m 
of  his  verse,  z:yl  makes  all  departures  from  it  sifrnificant 
of  artistic  desi«rn  on  the  part  of  the  poet.  Indications  of 
this  artistic  design  are  not  wanting  in  the  jjoera,  the  .several 
speakers  showing  a  preference  for  the  caesura  which  seems 
to  be  most  appropriate  to  them.  This  is  true  of  both  the 
untitle  and  /»/f«r  of  tho  caesura. 

(1)  The  masculine  caesura,  coming  after  an  accented  .syl- 
lable, does  not  disturb  the  flow  of  the  verse,  as  the  pause 
naturally  follows  an  accent.  This  arrangement  of  the  cae- 
sura gives  to  the  verse  a  smooth  and  e<]uable  movement. 
The  feminine  caesura,  on  the  other  hand,  coming  after  an 
unaccented  syllable,  gives  to  the  verse  a  more  agitated  and 


1 


THI    BLANK    VERSE. 


71 


broken  flow.     The  feminine  is  thus  the  natural  expression  of 
emotion  or  mental  disturbance,  and  the  masculine  of  calm 
reason  and  equanimity.     This  is  seen  in  the  most  perfect 
way  in  the  verse  of  Shakespeare;  and  it  is  seen  in  a  less 
degree  in  Browning,    because  his  dramatic  genius   is  so 
much  less.     Even  in  Shakespeare  the  variation  is  not  very 
large,  and  yet  it  mirrors  the   characteristics  of  the  speak- 
ers with   groat  distinctness.'     So  in  Browning,  the  actual 
figures  do  not  show  a  wide   variation;    but  the  nature  of 
the    verse    is    changed    greatly,    because   each    variation 
is   governed    by  an    artistic    motive.      Pompilia  shows  a 
preference  for  the  masculine  caesura,  using  63  per  cent., 
to  47  per  cent,  of  feminine.     On  the  other  hand,  the  Pope 
preserves  a  balance,  using  50  per  cent,  of  each.     Guido  in 
his  first   spt-ech,    uses  60  per  cent  of  feminine,  and  in  the 
last  speech  52  per  cent.     This  change   is  very  si^'nificant 
of  the  changed  mood  of  the  speaker.     In  the  last  speech, 
earnest    reason    takes    the    place   of     mocking    frivolity. 
Caponsacchi,  in  his  smooth  verse,  uses  45  percent,  of  fem- 
inine, to  55  per  cent,  of  masculine  caesuras. 

(2)  The  j)l(ur  of  the  caesura  ha.s  a  greater  effect  on  the 
verse  than  the  nu/utrof  the  caesura.  When  it  is  placed  near 
the  middle  of  the  line  it  gives  to  the  verse  an  even  flow; 
placed  near  the  beginning  or  end,  it  gives  a  bolder  and  less 
equable   rhythm.     Thus  Pompilia  shows  a  decided  prefer- 
ence for  the  masculine  caesura  after  the  second  accent  — 30 
percent.     This  makes  the  most  equable  rhythm  possible  in 
English  verse.     It    preponderates    in    Browning's    poetry, 
and  is  a  favorite  with  Shakespeare.    The  pause  next  used 
most  frequently  by  Pompilia  is   the   masculine  after  the 
third  accent  — 16  per  cent.,  and  then  the  feminine  after  the 
second  and  third  feet  — each  14  per  cent.     The    positions 
at  the  end  are  hardly  made  use  of  at  all  — only  from  4  to 
7  per  cent. 

•  Pricp,  ronstruptionnnd  Types  of  ShuKiperrn  Vene,  p.  39,  4;<-44. 


HROWMNU  S    VERSE-KORM:    ITS    OR«!A.Nir    CHARACTER. 


Caponsacchi  prefers  the  masculine  caesura  after  the  sec- 
ond accent  —  20  per  cent.;  then  the  feminine  after  the  sec- 
ond foot  —  18  per  cent. ;  then  the  feminine  after  the  first 
and  third  feet  —  each  14  percent.;  then  the  masculine  after 
the  third  accent  — 13  percent.;  then  the  masculine  after 
the  fourth  accent  —  5  i)er  cent.  This  shows  a  wide  variety 
of  rhythms. 

The  Pope  has  a  greater  variety  than  any  of  the  others, 
in  that  he  shows  a  much  less  decided  preference  for  any 
one  place.  As  a  result,  the  whole  movement  of  his  verse 
is  freer  and  bolder  than  that  of  any  of  the  others.  The 
caesura  most  frequently  used  is  the  masculine  after  the 
second  accent  —  20  per  cent.  Next  come  the  feminine 
caesuras  after  the  second  and  third  feet  —  17  and  16  per 
cent.,  respectively.  Then  come  the  masculine  caesuras 
after  the  third  and  first  accents — 12  and  9  per  cent.,  re- 
spectively. Least  often  used  are.  the  feminine  after  the 
first  foot  —  8  per  cent.,  the  masculine  after  the  fourth  ac- 
cent—  6   jjer  cent.,  and  the   feminine  after  the  fourth  foot 

—  4  per  cent. 

In  Guide's  first  speech  Ihe  feminine  caesura  after  the 
second  foot  makes  up  23  per  cent,  of  the  total.  Next  in 
frequency  come  the  masculine  after  the  second  accent  and 
the  feminine  afier  the  third  foot— each  20  per  cent.  The 
other  places  are  represented  by  from  10  to  3  per  cent.  In 
his  second  si)eech  the  preference  shifts  from  the  feminine 
after  the  second  foot  to  its  corresponding  masculine  —  that 
after  the  second  accent,  which  makes  up  20  per  cent.  Then 
follow  the  feminine  after  the  second  foot  and  the  first  foot 

—  V.)  and  17  per  cent,  respectively.  These  differences, 
taken  together  with  the  change  in  the  nature  of  the  caesura, 
gi\o  an  eniirely  different  atmosphere  to  the  two  speeches; 
and  admirably  reflect  the  change  in  the  character  of  the 
speaker,  before  pointed  out. 

IV.  The  enitixr/  of  the  verse  has  a  great  influence  in  the 
movement,  especially  when  it  is  considered  in  passages. 


I 


THE    BLANK    VER8K. 


73 


By  a  full  ending,  that  is.  a  weak  ending,  a  falling  cadence 
is  given  to  the  verse;  and  by  a  catalectic,  or  strong  end- 
ing, a  rising  cadence  is  given.  The  two  effects  are  entirely 
different,  as  may  be  seen  from  the  following  examples: 

the  roughest  swell 

Of  wind  in  the  tree  tops  hides  not  the  panting 

Of  thy  soft  breasts.     No,  wv  will  jjass  to  aiorn//i«7  

(J'auline) 

The  movement  is  very  different  from  that  of  such  lines 
as  the  following.  These  short  examples  will  show  how  the 
differences  between  these  two  endings  are  intensified  in 
sustained  passages: 

But  through  the  blackncsH  I  saw  Konio  again, 
And  where  a  solitary  villa  stootl. 

(T/ir  Pinif  (iu(/  (fir  /{,,(, k,  Hk.  I.) 

To  any  one  at  all  acquainted  with  Browning's  verse  it 
will  be  plain  that  the  second  example  is  the  most  charac- 
teristic. In  fact  it  may  be  said  that  Browning  makes  no 
use  of  the  full  ending.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  he 
shows  a  development  in  this  respect  entirely  opposite  to 
Shakespeare.  The  i)resence  of  full  lines  in  a  play  of 
Shakespeare  indicates  that  it  is  one  of  his  middle  or  later 
period.  In  Browning,  however,  the  case  is  different.  In 
Pivilhw,  his  earliest  poem,  and  written  under  the  intluence 
of  Shelley's  AUistor,  there  are  forty  cases  of  the  full  end- 
ing, or  4  per  cent.  In  Parmi'lms,  his  first  acknowledged 
work,  the  percentage  decreases  to  3',  and  in  the  later 
Strafford,  to  2,  per  cent.  After  that  play  they  disappear, 
and  occur  in  Thv  niu<j  ami  the  Rook  only  sporadically.  In 
Book  7.  there  is  the  doubtful  one  of  line  13l)L'  (des//r).  In 
Book  IV.  there  are  none,  according  to  Mayor-,  and  only  one 
in  Book  V'll.  (friar). 

By  this  habitual  use  of  the  catalectic  ending  the  individ- 
uality of  the  single  ver.ses  is  very  strongly  emphasized; 
and  there  is  no  doubt  that  in  this  emphasis  on  the   individ- 

'Tha  computation  of  Scl)i|i|»»>r,  l':),;ilh<l,r  M'Iril;.  II,  1,  pajje  3(j;{,  ^\'jo, 
'  Chaplem  on  Kinjluih  Mclrr,  p.  \H\. 


mmtm 


74 


KKOWNINO  S    VKRSK-FOHM:    ITS    OR(iANir    rilARACTKB. 


<: 


ual  verses  lies  the  source  of  some  of  the  faults  of  Brown- 
ing s  verse.  The  accented  ending,  by  bringing  the  line  to 
an  accented  close,  marks  the  completion  of  a  line  very 
strongly,  and  so  detracts  from  the  flexibility  of  the  rhythm. 
Thus  in  Shakespeare's  best  verse  the  lines  flow  together 
almost  imperceptibly,  and  of  themselves,  as  it  were;  and  we 
have  no  sense  of  having  passed  from  one  line  into  another. 
When  the  ending  of  a  verse  is  catalectic,  and  the  anacrusis 
is  dropped  from  the  succeeding  one.  the  two  accented  syl- 
lables are  thrown  immediately  together,  and  the  line- 
rhythm  is  made  doubly  strong.  Cases  of  this  are  compara- 
tively frequent  in  Browning,  rising  to  about  aO  per  cent,  in 
Guido  s  .second  speech. 

This  method  of  verse-construction  ^ould  produce  a 
rhythm  which  would  be  intolerably  monotonou.s,  if  there 
were  no  compensating  principh^  of  fusion,  whicii  would 
blend  the  individual  verses  together  to  form  the  larger 
strophe-groups.  This  compensation  Browning  finds  in 
eiijiimhetiitnt,  or  nin-mi  lints.  By  means  of  this  princii)le, 
all  the  advantages  of  a  closely-defined  line-rhythm  are  com- 
bined with  the  characteristic  which  all  the  best  blank  verse 
has  — a  free  and  varied  rhythm,  and  a  continuous  flow  from 
line  to  line.  Had  Browning  emphasized  his  line-structure 
less  and  preserved  his  characteristic  boldness  in  the  use  of 
enjambement.  the  result  would  have  been  a  chaotic  verse, 
differing  as  little  from  prose  as  the  decadent  Elizabethan 
product.  But  combining  the  close  line-structure  and  the 
free  enjambement,  the  result  is  a  verse  characteristically 
his  own,  and  suited  to  all  the  purposes  of  blank  verse, 
without  any  descent  into  mere  prose. 

In  The  Jiiiuf  (lud  the  Book  the  proportion  of  run-on  lines 
is  large,  varying  from  24  to  34  per  cent.  The  use  of  the  run- 
on  lines  is,  however,  not  varied  i;^  any  mechanical  or  arbi- 
tray  way,  but  organically,  and  in  keeping  with  the  char- 
acters. Pompilia's  verse  remains  more  within  the  limits 
of  the  line  than  the  others,  only  24  per  cent,   of  her  lines 


THE    BLANK    VERSE. 


75 


being  run-on.  Her  thought  moves  in  smaller  circles  than  the 
others,  and  is  at  the  extreme  from  the  Pope,  whose  sweep- 
ing thought  demands  :;2  per  cent.  Guido  and  Caponsacchi 
take  a  middle  place  with  about  ;i(»percertt..  although  Guido 
has  rather  the  most.  The.sc  are  the  average  number  of 
run-on  lines  considered  individually;  but  it  is  significant 
that  the  Pope  has  larger  (f  roups  of  these  liner;  than  any  of  the 
other  speakers.  Guido  most  closely  resembles  him  in  his 
clo.sely-knit  second  monologue. 

V.  There  is  another  feature  of  Browning's  blank  verse, 
and,  indeed  of  all  his  verse,  wherein  he  has  shown  great 
})Ower  and  originality,— his  aHit< ration.  This  has  been  a 
feature  of  all  Engli.sh  verse,  and  has  been  one  of  the  sources 
of  the  charm  of  it;  but  it  may  safely  be  said  that  no  English 
poet  has  made  use  of  it  so  consistently,  not  as  an  occas- 
ional charm  merely,  but  as  a  structural  princijjle  in  his 
verse,  as  has  Browning.     It  may  be  classified  as  follows: 

(1)  To  fuse  together  the  half-lino.  e.  g., 

.\n(l  7'ly  iilo/t.  The  r/ciiviii^,'  of  a  ^Voiul,  .S7/y  hut  .vtiro. 

(2)  To  fuse  the  line,  as  in  the  Anglo  Saxon  poetry,  e.  g., 
7'raversc  the  half  iiiilc  avonuc,— a  fi'nn. 

xl/ere  //(iH)nshin('  structure  ?/ioaiit  to  fado  at  dawn. 
This  carolfss  'ourat'c  as  to  ''onstsnicucc. 

(3)  To  fuse  the  latter  half  of  the  line  to  the  succeeding 
line.  e.  g., 

.  .  .  the  /)/iyHir\i\n  hero. 
My/ather's  lackey's  son. 

.  .  .  the/ine 
/•'elicity  ami /lower  of  wickedness. 

This  has  the  same  effect  as  enjambement,  the  similarity 
of  sound  emphasizing  the  connection  in  the  same  manner  as 
the  lack  of  a  pause. 

(4)  To  fuse  together  whole  strophes,  or  periods.' 

In  the  following  lines,  an  r-alliteration  runs  through  them, 
and  is  reinforced   by  the  ^alliteration  which  begins  in  the 

1  What  Prof.  Sjlvf^ter  chU.-;  "Plioriptic  Syjfyzj , "  in  liis  /,«  i/.<i  o/  r<r»«. 


7t> 


ItRnWMNii  S    VERSE   FORM  :    ITS    OHOAN'lr    rn.ARACTER. 


second  last  lin.\     This   intortwininj,'  of  alliterating   letters 
is  often  vory  coniplox,  and  is  very  beautiful. 
/I'ainhowod  aliout  with  ?-icht'H.  /oyalty 
/I'iiiiiiiin,',' liiT  /(hiikI,  ,1-,  /•((iitnl  tlic  tintlcss  /awn 
^.'ti.inlinu'ly  iuu<  flii'si'/vM^'c  <•/.  .th  nf  //mAI.     (Hk.  XI,2r2t;  ft., 

Notice  tlial  tl.t>  lino-alliteration  f/— r/  is  also  in  the  last 
line. 

It  is  intorestii  J?  to  observe  the  use  of  those  several 
forms  of  alliteration  in  the  several  books  of  the  jjoem: 

1.  This  class  is  used  as  follows:  Guido.  25  per  cent,  of 
the  lines;  Caponsacchi.  30  per  cent. ;  I'ompilia,  21  percent., 
and  the  Pope.  o2  pt>r  cent. 

2.  Thiscla.ss  is  u.^<>d:  Guido.  27  por  cent.;  Claponsacchi, 
40  per  cent.;  Poiiipiiia,  43  per  cent.,  and  the  Pope,  iio  per 
cent. 

3.  Guido.  12  p(>r  cent,  in  the  tirst  speech  and  20  per  cent, 
in  the  second;  Caponsacchi.  .'.  per  cent.;  Ponipilia,  9  per 
cent.,  and  the  Pope  26  por  cent. 

4.  It  is  difficult  to  present  th'  distinct  uses  of  this  form 
o'  alliteration  in  figures  which  ran  make  much  claim  to  ac- 
curacy or  significance,  although  these  difrorences  are  very 
vital  and  real.  The  phenomena  is  similar  to  that  of  the 
stropeformation,  and  it  will  i^e  instructive  to  observe  it 
witli  reference  to  the  number  of  lines  in  the  groujjs  yoked 
together  by  it.  Thus,  the  Pope  has  alliterating  groups  of 
from  5  to  7  lines.  (Juido's  first  monologue  contains  groups 
of  7  to  13  lines;  but  the  alliterating  groups  of  his  second 
monologue  are  smaller.  Pomi)ilia's  groups  hardly  ever 
exceed  4  lines,  and  Caponsacchi's  rarely  run  beyond  6 
lines. 

A  careful  examination  of  these  figures  will  show  that 
the  nature  of  the  thought  and  emotion  of  the  several 
speakers  is  indicated  with  sufficient  clearness  by  the  use 
which  they  make  of  alliteration.  The  'low  sighing'  of 
Pompilias  soul  is  mirrored  in  her  preference  for  small 
groups  of  alliteration.     Her  alliteration  rarely  goes  beyond 


TUE    BLANK    VERSB.  77 

the  limits  of  the  line;  and  of  the  third  class,  which  binds  the 
lines  in  a  continuous  series,  she  makes  scarcely  any  use. 
The  Pope's  lines  form  a  reasoned  series;  and  so  he  uses 
the  third  form  of  alliteration  to  a  very  great  extent,  (iuido 
does  the  same  to  a  less  detjree  in  his  second  speech,  show- 
ing a  signiticant  difference  between  it  and  his  first  mono- 
logue. The  last  speech  is  much  more  reasoned.  Capon- 
sacchi  speaks  'burning  words,"  and  he  accordingly  makes 
a  large  use  of  the  first  and  second  classes  of  alliteration. 
Emotion,  not  thought,  is  the  basis  of  his  monologue,  and 
he  has  no  need  for  the  sequacious  third  form  of  allitera- 
tion. 

The  preference  which  certain  of  the  speakers  show  for 
certain  letters  in  their  alK  eration  is  interesting.  In  the 
passages  specially  examined,  it  has  been  noted  that  Guido 
makes  a  very  free  use  of  the  harsh  h-  and  g-  alliteration, 
and  also,  less  often,  r/.  ^  and  />.  The  sibilant  s  is  also  fre- 
quent. Caponsacchi  shows  a  preference  for  /,  /,  m:  and 
Pompilia  for  /,  m,  n,  and  r.  The  Pope's  verse  i.s  strongly 
marked  by  the  explosive  and  vigorous  p-  and  b  allitera- 
tions. 

There  may  be  other  important  characteristics  of  Brown- 
ings  blank  verse  other  than  those  noted  in  this  analysis; 
but  these  have  seemed  the  most  obvious  and  important. 
Whether  the  essential  character!.- tics  of  his  blank  verse 
have  been  analyzed  in  this  chapter,  will  be  shown  by  the 
completeness  with  which  it  may  aid  the  reader  to  pass 
from  the  analysis  to  the  living  unity  of  the  poem,  and  to 
see  the  organic  loveliness  of  the  thing  itself,  of  which  the 
analysis  is  but  the  dry  bone.s. 


/^  BIBLIOTHECA 


favieii3i9 


mm^ 


mmmm 


•''. 


VITA. 

t.l'^'^'""'  °!""*''  "*"  '""•"  '"  '^'^S'  »'  Kirkton,  On. 
ar  a  Prom  .he  public  school  I  went  to  the  Collegiate 
Inst, tute  at  St.  Marys,  whence  I  matriculated  at  the  UnT- 
vers,.y  of  Toronto,  in  June,  18S9,  and  was  graduated  B  A 
m  June,  W.m.  In  my  undergraduate  work  I  atldedthe 
lectures  of  the  late  Sir  Daniel  Wilson  and  of  p"ofess^rs 
Alexander,  Keys,  Baldwin.  Ashley  and  Hume.  fT2 
Toronto  I  went  to  Cornell  University,  taking  courses  wUh 
Proessor  Corson,    and    with    President    Schurman  and 

CoTumbrTT  ■■       '^"'"''"  "■"'  ''"'''•'"■     '"  '-y  '-"" 
«n«   ,  ^rT''"'  "    ""'""^ity   Pe'low  in  English. 
1895-96,  I  attendca   the  lectures   of  Professor  Thos    R 
Pnce,  and  of  Professors  O.  E.  Woodberry  and  W.  H.  Car^ 
p©Dt©r. 

To  each  of  my  teachers  in  English  I  feel  great  obliga 
K,n  and  especially  to  Professor  Price,  whose  personaMn- 
teiest  and  patient  sympathy  have  been  freely  given  me 
in  the  preparation  of  this  dissertation. 


